From the Ashes
by RRJG
Summary: The tale of a boy who grew from a tragic story to a young hero.
1. Chapter 1

Note: Hi! This is my first time posting a story. I don't own any recognizable characters and I'm not making any money by using said characters. I use italics to show when a person is thinking something but I also use them to emphasize certain words. I'm bad at keeping people in character so sorry if they are not their usual canon selves. Thanks for reading!

* * *

The fall seemed to take forever, yet it was over before he could even blink. Nine-year-old Dick Grayson watched his parents' bodies hit the floor and begin painting red pictures on the dirt. He was frozen, but he didn't understand why. Why wasn't he down there drawing with them?

Screams assaulted his ears and Dick realized that they were coming from him. That was something else he didn't understand. He should be climbing down the ladder to join them, not screaming from thirty feet above them. Why was he still on the platform?

He was going to be in so much trouble. The first rule of the Flying Graysons: never go up on the platform by yourself. _Ever._ Yet here he was. But nobody was even looking at him; maybe he could get down before anyone noticed that he was breaking the rule.

Dick's eyes shifted from the scene on the floor when he noticed movement to his right. A single man was standing several feet away from the crowd around his parents. He was staring up at the young aerialist with some sort of expression that Dick didn't recognize.

Shrugging off the weird look on the stranger's face, the nine-year-old moved to the ladder and began the long climb down. He suddenly realized that it was completely silent. This was Haly's Circus – it was _never_ silent.

Dick reached the ground and turned around. Now _everybody_ was staring at him, not just the stranger, and it made him nervous. They all looked so…sad.

He walked toward the crowd and people immediately moved out of his way. The boy abruptly stopped: his parents weren't using red paint, they were _bleeding_. And the angles of their arms and legs, it was all wrong. Something was horribly wrong and Dick was now rooted to his spot.

The people around him began crying and Mr. Haly walked toward him. Dick's view of his parents was blocked and he suddenly needed to be near them. But there were bodies crowding around him and hands reaching out to him. Shaking off the touch of a woman on his right, the boy shoved his way through the rest of the people until he reached a scene that he would remember for the rest of his life.

His dad was lying on his back with one leg bent the wrong way and the other with sharp points of white bone sticking out. The man's right arm was underneath him and his left was stretched out to the side, under the neck of Dick's mom.

She had landed on her right side. Her left leg was curled behind her and her right was so twisted that her knee was facing the wrong way. One arm was outstretched toward Dick's dad, while the other lay across the top of her head.

Both sets of eyes were wide open but there was no light shining in them. Dick knelt down between them and quietly searched each pair of eyes, hoping to see laughter or happiness. Because this…this was all a joke. It was a stupid prank, one that nobody should ever pull, and yet here they were. The boy wondered who had put them up to it and, most of all, why they were still participating in it.

"Okay," the nine-year-old whispered, "you got me. Ha ha, you tricked me."

Neither parent reacted and Dick was suddenly very, _very_ worried.

"You can wake up now," he stated loudly, panic skirting around the edges of the words.

Again he received no reaction and the panic filled his entire body.

"_WAKE UP!_" he demanded.

The sound of sobbing came from behind him but he ignored it. His parents were being really mean right now, they had never done anything like this to him. They should be sitting up, laughing and apologizing for scaring him. But…they weren't moving. And, he realized, they weren't even breathing.

"Nononononononononononono," Dick moaned softly. _"NO! NO! NO!"_ he screamed. "_Wake up! Don't do this to me! Wake up right now or I'll…I'll run away!_"

That would do it; his parents would never want him to run away.

"I'm sorry, Dick," Mr. Haly whispered as he crouched beside the boy.

Dick stared up at him, his light-blue eyes glazing over as his mind refused to accept the situation. He felt strong arms lift him up and he automatically curled into the warm, familiar chest. The nine-year-old began hearing sounds that he knew were words. However, he couldn't connect the letters together so nothing was making any sense.

"He has to come with us."

It was a woman's voice, he could tell that much. Dick felt the firm grip around his body tighten.

"His home is here."

"Not anymore. His parents died in Gotham City, he is now our responsibility."

"He has people who love him; we are family."

"Regardless of what you _feel_ you are, the boy has to have a legal guardian. And until you can show me some paperwork stating that you, or anyone else here, is his guardian, he comes with me."

A soft hand grabbed Dick's arm and he released a choking sob.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Haly. My name is James Gordon, Police Commissioner. I'm here to escort the child to a state facility. I wish we could do it your way but I can't change the laws. I truly am sorry, sir."

"Just give him the night with us."

"And have you spirit him away?! No, certainly not! He comes with me now or the commissioner here will take you to headquarters. You and the rest of your lot."

At that, Dick lifted his head and stared at the lady with the angry expression.

"Are we going to jail?" the boy whispered.

"No, son, nobody's taking you to jail," Mr. Haly stated softly.

The man's expression went from hard to gentle when he looked down at the small boy snuggled in his arms.

"Don't lie to him," the woman snapped.

Mr. Haly glared at her, both fury and confusion in his eyes.

"What is _that_ supposed to mean," he growled.

"We have no room for extras in any of our group homes or orphanages right now. I have to temporarily place him in a juvenile detention center."

_"WHAT?!_"

The exclamation came from the commissioner, Mr. Haly and some voice that Dick didn't recognize.

"If there's no room, why can't you leave him with his circus family, Miss Jameson?" Commissioner Gordon asked.

"It's the law, Commissioner, and you know that," she nearly snarled.

"Isn't that a…a jail for, um, kids?" Dick whispered again, his voice full of fear.

His already tight grip on the shirt of Mr. Haly suddenly became stronger and he turned his head back to the man's chest. He really didn't want to go to jail. Mean people went to jail and he didn't think he had done anything as bad as those people.

"Well, yes," the woman stated. Her voice softened slightly and she continued, "But you'll only be there for a night or two. There's nothing to worry about."

"Where will he sleep?" a gruff voice, the one Dick didn't recognize, asked. "Surely you're not going to put him in a cell."

"You don't really have anything to do with this matter, _Bruce_," the lady declared snidely. "So I don't know why you're even here."

"Please answer the question, Miss Jameson," Commissioner Gordon stated.

Heaving a sigh of irritation, she replied, "The only place to sleep in a juvenile detention center is on a bed – or the floor, if he wants to – in a cell."

"But he hasn't done anything wrong!" Bruce Wayne growled.

Dick sensed a strong presence next to him and, for some reason, felt slightly less fearful. There was a long stretch of silence. If Dick had been looking, he would have seen a haughty scowl on the face of Miss Jameson, a surprised and worried expression on Mr. Haly's face and something close to a death glare from Bruce Wayne.

"I'll take him, Jim. Until they have space, let him stay with me," the latter man demanded. "He doesn't belong in a place like _that_ and he won't survive the night."

The commissioner looked thoughtful while the woman rolled her eyes.

"You have no claims to him, Bruce," she sneered. "You probably don't even know his name. The only person you care about is _you_."

Bruce really wanted to take out his frustration on somebody but that would definitely hurt his case.

"His name," the man started and realized he was still growling. Clearing his throat and shoving the anger into the back of his mind, Bruce tried again.

"His name is Richard John Grayson. He is the nine-year-old son of John and Mary Grayson and one-third of the family of acrobatic aerialists known as The Flying Graysons."

There was another long pause and Dick finally lifted his head. The man standing next to Mr. Haly was tall and muscular with dark hair and angry eyes. They were dark-blue, the nine-year-old noticed when the man looked at him. And his eyes, as soon as they connected with Dick's own, went from angry to concerned.

Bruce glanced at the small child, whose eyes were full of dread. He was only nine, had just lost both his parents less than fifteen minutes ago, and was about to be ripped away from everything he knew and left in a detention center until who-knows-when. The man's gaze softened, and he decided to fight for the young orphan.

"Come on, Jim," Bruce turned to the commissioner. "He'll be safe with me. You know you can't say the same thing about the center."

"He makes a valid point, Miss Jameson," Commissioner Gordon stated. "I don't believe that the compassionate citizens of Gotham City would want a newly-orphaned child to be thrown in with kids who are in the detention center for a legitimate reason."

"The _legitimate_ reason here, _Commissioner_, is the fact that we have no space anywhere else. Now do your job and take the kid out of the circus owner's arms."

Turning to Bruce, the commissioner stated, "You can take him tonight, Bruce. I'll talk to the mayor in the morning and get permission for you to keep him until a room opens up in a group home or orphanage."

"I want to stay here," Dick said as he burst into tears. "Why can't I stay here?"

"It's the law, son," Mr. Haly answered softly. "But we will fight to get you back, okay? We won't give up, I promise."

"O…okay," the boy whimpered.

"But you have to let go, Dick," the man continued. "Mr. Wayne is a nice man and he's going to let you stay with him tonight. But you have to let go."

Dick began to sob but released his tight hold on the rough shirt of Mr. Haly. The man gently held him out to Bruce, who stared at the scene in confusion.

"Bruce? I don't think he's going to be able to walk," the commissioner commented. "You're going to have to carry him."

"Oh, right," Bruce replied. He held out his arms and accepted the small bundle of trembling flesh.

Dick immediately curled into the strong chest and grabbed on to Bruce Wayne's expensive suitcoat. His sobs turned into soft cries and were soon muffled by the man's shirt.

"This is ridiculous," the woman muttered. "I'm having a talk with the mayor myself tomorrow, Commissioner, and you can bet that I will find a way to keep this poor child out of the house of an arrogant man who thinks of nobody but himself."

Bruce was aching to say something but the look he received from Jim Gordon silenced him before he even started. The meaning was obvious:

_Don't jeopardize this._

So, instead of giving the social worker a giant piece of his furious mind, Bruce Wayne turned around and left the tent. Three minutes later he was approaching his limousine, where his faithful butler, Alfred, was patiently waiting.

"I picked up a little something extra, Alfred," he stated when he saw the surprised expression on the older man's face. "I'll explain on the way home."

Erasing the surprise off his face, the butler nodded politely and opened the car door. As the younger man climbed in, Alfred received a glimpse of a small head of dark hair and heard quiet sniffling. His eyes widened imperceptibly.

_This is going to be an interesting story._

* * *

Bruce didn't know how to handle the situation. Should he make small talk? What would they talk about? How about those Gotham Knights? The boy probably didn't even know anything about the Knights.

Fortunately for him, Dick fell asleep almost instantly. Sighing gratefully, the millionaire gently laid him on the seat as Alfred climbed into the vehicle.

The butler was patient, staying silent as he drove through the streets of Gotham City. Bruce would tell him sooner or later and Alfred was used to waiting for his charge to decide how to deal with whatever was happening.

"He's staying with us, Alfred, for an indeterminate amount of time."

"If I may, sir, who is he?"

"He's part of The Flying Graysons, the trapeze family I was telling you about earlier."

There was a long pause, broken only by a nearly inaudible sigh. Alfred recognized that sound – Bruce was feeling indecisive about something.

"His parents fell, Alfred, they died right in front of him."

The millionaire was whispering and the sentence was full of grief.

"Oh, dear," the butler murmured, glancing at his charge in the rearview mirror.

Bruce was staring down at the boy and, to Alfred's surprise, gently running a hand through the dark hair.

"Social services was going to put him in a juvenile detention center but I convinced Jim Gordon to let me take him for the night."

"A detention center, Master Bruce?!" Alfred exclaimed, shocked at the revelation. "But he's done nothing wrong!"

"It was Susan Jameson. She said there's no room anywhere else; it was her only option. I presented an alternative and she was furious."

"Ah," the butler stated, understanding in his eyes.

Miss Jameson had recently been Bruce's date to a social gathering. And Bruce Wayne usually didn't go on second dates. Obviously, the woman was holding a grudge.

"Jim's going to talk to the mayor in the morning and try to get permission for Dick to stay with us until there's space somewhere else. Of course, Susan is also going to speak to the mayor. And she already wants him out of my house. She's a social worker! Shouldn't she want what's best for him? Shouldn't she want him to be _safe_?!"

The last word was shouted. Dick stirred but didn't wake up.

"In my opinion, Master Bruce, he should be with his circus family, not on his way to a stranger's house."

"I agree but she was adamant about him leaving. What I don't understand is why she would still want to take him even though the system is overflowing! Why can't he just stay with people that he grew up with, people who love him?!"

"I wish I could answer that question, sir. But I most definitely prefer him to be coming home with us instead of being shipped off to a place where he probably won't survive for more than a day."

"If that," Bruce grumbled. "It's just so unfair, Alfred, and you know how I feel about injustice."

"Of course I do, Master Bruce. And we are now home. Why don't you carry him inside while I go prepare a room for him."

It was a statement, not a question, but the millionaire wasn't offended. Alfred was much more capable than Bruce Wayne at handling something like this. Although something 'like this' had never happened at Wayne Manor.

Bruce suddenly noticed that Alfred was gone. The front door was open and he could just see the butler climbing the stairs. Shocked at the man's speed, the millionaire carefully picked up the child and got out of the car. Gently situating the boy in his arms, Bruce Wayne carried Dick Grayson into Wayne Manor for the first, but certainly not last, time.


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Trigger warning - non-graphic descriptions of child abuse (mostly bruises).

* * *

**One month later:**

To almost everyone, the fact that young Dick Grayson was still in the household of millionaire Bruce Wayne was shocking. To Alfred, however, it was a blessing. Despite everything that had happened to him, Dick was almost always cheerful. He had brought light into the lives of one man who lived in the dark and another who had difficulty bringing the first man out of the shadows.

The boy didn't know it, of course, but Batman wasn't as harsh when taking down criminals and villains now. Instead of beating them to a pulp and telling Commissioner Gordon when they were ready for pickup, he would merely knock them out and, sometimes, haul them down to Headquarters himself.

Dick was an easy-going child who loved to make people laugh. He was smart and witty and very, _very_ active. There wasn't a room on the ground floor that didn't have an 'assigned' trick – one that the nine-year-old _had_ to do every time he entered that specific room.

Bruce had been forced to snatch the boy out of the air several times: the day he climbed on the chandelier, got stuck and flipped down anyway; the night he tried to use the stair bannister as a ski jump; and the morning he had tumbled through the hall in socks, slipped because he couldn't get traction, and under-rotated his double backflip so badly that he would have crushed his face on the white marble of the floor. Just yesterday Dick had decided that the ladder in the library was unnecessary, climbed his way up the shelves like a monkey, lost his footing and nearly cracked his head open on the ladder that he should have used in the first place.

Of course, there were good days and bad days. Mondays were always bad – they had died on a Monday. Fridays were always good – the day Bruce had been granted legal guardianship was a Friday. But nights, those were a different story.

Batman would come home from patrol and, a quick shower later, Bruce would exit the study and walk up the stairs. Every night he tip-toed past Dick's door and into his own room, hoping his ward would be asleep. But every night, like clockwork, the nine-year-old would start screaming in terror. The man would either just be falling asleep or just climbing into bed when the screams began. He always instantly jumped out of bed and raced to the room next door, gathering the child in his arms and patiently waiting for the nightmare to stop and the boy to calm down.

There were nights when Dick would be able to go back to sleep but most nights were spent sitting on his guardian's lap, trembling and crying softly. Every night the boy would apologize for waking up the millionaire, and every night the man would reply that there was no need to apologize for something the child couldn't control.

Bruce usually fell asleep sitting on a chair in his young ward's room. Dick never noticed, or at least he never said anything about it. He was too busy curling into the man's chest and holding on to his shirt as if his very life depended on it.

That was how Alfred found them almost every morning. Dick would lift his head, his light-blue eyes weary and tear tracks evident on his small cheeks. Bruce, feeling the movement, would immediately open his eyes, which looked just as tired as the ones of the child sitting on his lap.

Alfred was concerned about both of them. Bruce was going to get sick if he kept pushing himself like this – head of Wayne Enterprises with a multitude of meetings every day, Batman patrolling Gotham City until one or two in the morning and then having to sleep in a chair so his young ward would feel safe. And Dick, going to school with the whites of his eyes streaked with red lines and so tired that Bruce had received several notes about the boy not paying attention in class.

But the nine-year-old wasn't having any trouble keeping up. He was extremely intelligent and usually understood whatever he was being taught the first time it was explained to him. The notes were, therefore, just informational. Every message was accompanied by a post script: not affecting his work, his behavior or his classmates.

His favorite time of day was after school and before dinner. The bus would drop him off at Wayne Manor and Dick would race up the long walk and burst through the front door. Alfred, polite butler that he was, always stood at the entrance to greet the boy. His reward was an enthusiastic hug and an immediate earful of everything that had happened during the day.

Dick would quickly do his homework then go directly to the newly furnished room beside the workout gym. Bruce had set up an acrobat's dream house. There was a high bar, two tumble tracks – one with a foam pit for trying new tricks – a climbing rope that went twenty feet in the air and a set of rings. The man had thought about putting in a trapeze but decided to wait until the boy asked for one.

After an hour or so, the nine-year-old would end up in the living room, sitting on the royal-blue chair that had the best view of the front door. Sometimes it was ten minutes, sometimes almost an hour, but eventually Bruce Wayne would walk through that door. The first place his eyes would go was that chair. The first thing he almost always saw was the giant grin on his ward's face and then a little blur would suddenly be throwing itself into his arms.

Bruce never said anything, but coming home was now _his_ favorite time of the day. Even on Mondays, the sad days, Dick would be grinning when his guardian entered the house. And that grin, that brilliant, trusting, youthful smile, would make the millionaire forget whatever troubles the day had thrust upon his shoulders – for a little while, anyway.

Then, on a seemingly normal Thursday, something happened. Dick came home from school and entered the house with his head down. The usually-enthusiastic hug was a quick squeeze. He dropped his backpack and immediately went to his favorite chair in the living room. The nine-year-old pulled his legs into his chest, wrapped his arms around them and rested his forehead on top of his knees. Alfred, deciding that the boy needed some time to himself, left an afternoon snack on the small table by the chair and retired to the kitchen to prepare dinner.

Bruce came home late that night and found him still sitting there. Dick had stayed in the chair, almost completely still, for nearly four hours. Alfred had done everything he could think of to no avail. The child didn't eat the snack, refused to respond to anything and didn't even acknowledge the fact that his homework had been placed on the living room table. It was untouched and that in itself was concerning. He was very studious and demanded perfection from himself. Not doing homework right away was, in Dick's eyes, an extreme lack of perfection.

"Hey, chum, what's wrong?"

Crouching in front of the boy, Bruce lightly touched a small but strong arm and attempted to see his ward's face. Dick flinched but didn't pull away. They stayed that way for several minutes and Bruce began to feel impatience rising in his chest. His grip on the boy's arm unintentionally tightened and Dick instantly lifted his head.

A sigh of relief flew out of the man's mouth but the relief faded into anger when he discovered the reason for Dick's self-imposed exile. A large, purple bruise surrounded the boy's left eye and there was a thin line of dried blood just under his eyebrow on the same side.

"Who did this to you?" Bruce growled and Dick shrugged, a touch of fear in his eyes.

"Name, Dick, I need a name," he declared, a little more gently.

The nine-year-old shook his head and his eyes began flitting around the room, landing everywhere except the dark-blue circles of his guardian.

"I can't help you if I don't know what's going on," Bruce stated softly.

"I'll get in trouble," Dick replied quietly, finally looking into the man's eyes.

"Why would you get in trouble?"

Dick shrugged again and dropped his forehead back onto his knees.

"Did someone threaten you? Did the person say something worse would happen if you told anybody?"

A small nod affirmed the question and Bruce's face grew dark with anger. Someone had not only _hit_ his boy, that person had also demanded secrecy by threatening the nine-year-old.

"Who?!" Bruce suddenly shouted and Dick flinched before raising his head.

"I can't…please don't make me," he whispered as tears welled up in his eyes.

"I won't let you get hurt," the man almost growled again. "I'll take care of it, kiddo."

"He said…he would…_kill_ you. Just like my parents!" the boy exclaimed softly as the tears began streaming down his cheeks. "I can't…I don't want you…"

Bruce clenched his jaw in fury. If he could just get the name, Batman would be able to visit the kid – and his parents, of course – in order to straighten this out.

"Who, Dick? I need the name."

"Please…" the boy pleaded. "I promised! I can't break a promise!"

"You can if the promise was made under duress, kiddo. And I assure you, that promise was _definitely_ made under duress."

"He was so mad," the nine-year-old said quietly. "I didn't do…all I did was answer the question! Then his face turned red and he told me to see him after class. I didn't mean it, I swear! I was just pointing out a fact that he had missed. Bruce, _I swear I wasn't trying to embarrass or humiliate him!_"

"This was a…a teacher?!" Bruce exclaimed in disbelief.

He received another small nod and abruptly stood up. A _teacher_ had assaulted a nine-year-old boy and nobody knew about it?!

"I swear, Bruce, I didn't mean it! Please believe me!"

"Of course I believe you, kiddo! What makes you think I wouldn't?"

"He said I'm a troublemaker, that I'm only here so you can show how great you are. How you're so charitable to take…take in a…a circus freak and that soon you…you won't want me anymore!"

The words were mumbled and difficult to understand. Dick was sobbing. He didn't want to believe it but…what if the man was right? What if Bruce was getting tired of him?

Bruce was crouching in front of him again.

"Dick, I will never make you leave. You aren't a freak or a troublemaker. You're one of the best things that has ever happened to me and I will always want you to stay. Okay?"

The light-blue eyes carefully examined the dark-blue ones, searching for any hint of a lie or half-truth. There was kindness but Dick could see a ring of darkness in his guardian's expression.

"Are you…mad at…at me?" he asked timidly as he swiped a hand across his bruised cheek.

"Of course not, kiddo. But I need to know who did this."

"But what if…he's so big, Bruce!"

"Dick," the millionaire began, "Batman is a personal friend of mine. I'm pretty sure I can convince him to work this out."

The boy's eyes widened in amazement.

"You're friends with _Batman_!"

Bruce nodded and chuckled quietly when he saw a giant smile erupt on his ward's face.

_If he only knew._

"But what if he's stronger than even Batman?! You haven't seen him, Bruce, he's like a bodybuilder or something!"

There was a great deal of fear in Dick's voice and the smile had disappeared. Bruce inaudibly sighed. He really wanted to kill whoever had done this to his boy but, obviously, that was out of the question.

"Have you ever heard of Batman losing a fight, kiddo?"

"Well, no, but I haven't been here for very long. He probably used to lose a lot, when he was just starting, don't you think?"

"No," Bruce replied, slightly offended but also amused. "I've known him for longer than you've been alive. Yes, he's been in some trouble, but he always comes out on top."

"Always?" the boy stated, his tone outlined with skepticism.

"Always," the man replied firmly. "No matter the villain or criminal, Batman _always_ comes out on top. Just give me a name and you won't have to worry about the te…"

Bruce paused then decided not to group the man into a field of hard-working educators.

"The criminal," he finished.

There was complete silence for several minutes as Dick mulled over everything in his mind. A seed of doubt was still flourishing, convincing him that if he told Bruce the name of the man who had hit him, his guardian would die.

"Dick," Bruce prodded gently. "Please tell me, chum."

The boy took a deep breath and the man tensed with anticipation.

"Mr., um, no…I…no!"

"Come on, Dick, you can say it. Nothing is going to happen to me; Batman will take care of it. We can't let this happen again."

More silence, broken only by some quiet sniffles and an even quieter grunt of what Bruce could only describe as disbelief.

"Dick," he stated loudly as he thought of something. "Tell me everything. Has this happened before? Am I only finding out because he gave you a black eye?"

The boy refused to look him in the eye again and the rage boiling in Bruce's blood increased.

"How long? _How long, Dick_?!"

The second sentence was shouted and the nine-year-old hid his face again.

"Master Bruce?! What's going on?"

Alfred rushed into the room, causing Dick to lift his head. The butler gasped in both astonishment and dismay. From the words he had just heard, somebody had assaulted the boy more than just this once. But Dick had never shown any signs of distress or pain.

"I don't know," the child whispered guiltily. "A month?"

Bruce squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath. This man had been hitting Dick for _a month_ and the boy had somehow kept everything to himself!

Bruce opened his eyes and Dick suddenly stood up. It was his turn to take a deep breath and neither man missed the tiny wince.

"Please don't be mad at me," he begged before lifting his shirt.

The boy's entire torso was full of bruises, some fading away, some obviously new. Bruce noticed a rib moving every time Dick took a breath and again wondered how his ward had been able to hide this.

"Master Dick!" Alfred exclaimed sympathetically. "Why didn't you tell us?"

"Later, Alfred. I'll explain everything later," Bruce replied as Dick lowered his shirt.

But then he took it off completely and Batman almost exploded out of Bruce's body.

Finger-shaped bruises, again both new and old, were all over the boy's upper arms and shoulders. He turned around and the men stared at the large welts all over Dick's back.

"Wh…what did he use?"

Bruce's voice was strangled and he nearly choked on the words.

There was a little shrug in response and then a quiet, "Just from pushing me against the desks. He didn't _use_ anything, like a belt or something, if that's what you mean."

"Why, young sir?"

"He just doesn't like me, I guess. I don't mean to make him mad, it just happens. I don't know what it is that I'm doing. I've tried lots of stuff: looking at him, not looking at him, answering questions, not answering questions, sitting in the back, sitting in the front, taking meticulous notes, not taking any notes at all. I don't know what I'm doing to make him so mad."

"No, Dick," Bruce nearly snarled. "This is not your fault. You're not doing anything wrong, okay?"

"Well, he said it is. He said I'm a troublemaker and troublemakers need discipline. He said since you don't give it to me, he has to. And if I tell you, he'll make me watch you die."

"Oh, my word," Alfred gasped quietly.

Bruce had gone from crouching to sitting in the chair Dick had abandoned. Gently, he grabbed Dick's right hand and pulled him onto his lap.

"It won't happen, kiddo," he stated softly but confidently. "Batman is going to take care of this, okay? I'm not going to die and this guy won't ever be able to touch you again. Can you trust me?"

He received a minute nod so he continued.

"I need you to tell me the name, Dick. Batman needs to know so that he can put this criminal in jail. Please just tell me."

The child was crying again, his head leaning against his guardian's shoulder and the tears sliding onto the man's expensive shirt.

"Mr., um, Jerkens," was the whispered response. "Sometimes, in my mind, I call him Mr. Jerkface. I'm sorry, Bruce!"

The last sentence was much louder than the others and Dick pushed away from his guardian. He walked over to the fireplace, knelt down and punched the brick as hard as he could.

"_Dick!"_ Bruce shouted incredulously.

"I'm sorry for ruining the pillow!" the boy yelled. "The pillow broke but I can't break this!"

"The pillow, Master Dick!" Alfred exclaimed. "It was a slight tear that I mended this morning!"

Bruce was by his ward's side, cradling the hand that now had blood flowing out of its knuckles. Alfred quickly left to get supplies. He returned less than a minute later with a damp towel, a dry towel, antiseptic cream, gauze and medical tape.

"Dick, why did you…"

"Because that's how I let it out!" Dick interrupted, almost growling at his guardian. "I can't keep everything inside but I wasn't allowed to tell you so I've been punching stuff but yesterday I tore the pillow and so now I know I can't use that anymore so I'm just going to use something that I can't break!"

Dick was angry; neither Bruce nor Alfred had ever heard this tone and it surprised them. He sounded almost as angry as a younger version of Batman, although they both knew that the boy's anger couldn't even begin to reach the height of the man's fury.

_Especially right now._

That thought strolled through Alfred's mind when he saw the expression on the millionaire's face. Bruce was furious, that was obvious to anyone, but only the butler could detect the rage of Batman flowing inside the man. But Bruce was being so gentle with Dick, carefully cleaning the boy's knuckles and swathing them in gauze before pulling his ward into a hug.

Alfred saw Dick wince at the pressure on his bruises and knew Bruce could feel it. The millionaire immediately pulled away and stood, pulling Dick up with him.

"You need some ice, chum," the man remarked gently. "Your entire torso needs to be taken care of and…"

"But isn't it dinner time? Alfred's food is going to get cold!"

"Are you hungry, Master Dick?"

There was a short pause and then the boy sadly whispered, "No, not really."

"Then dinner can wait," Bruce declared.


	3. Chapter 3

Note: Thanks for the comment, finalotte! Trigger warning - mentions/short descriptions of bullying.

* * *

**Later that night:**

"I want to kill him!" Batman shouted as he stormed around the Batcave. "How dare he…and he's allowed to be a teacher?! A month, Alfred, how did Dick hide it for a _month_?!"

"He obviously has a high tolerance for pain, Master Batman. And, if you were nine, sir, wouldn't you be scared if your teacher told you that if you said anything he would kill your guardian? Master Dick is intelligent, but he also trusts the adults he interacts with on a daily basis. If this man is as big as he says, sir, then Master Dick would have an excellent reason to stay quiet."

"But I'm _BATMAN_! I should have noticed this; how did I not know this?!"

"Even Batman can overlook things, sir. The important thing is that we can fix it."

"Has the address come up yet?"

"No, sir. The Bat-computer has no information on a Mr. Jerkens."

"It's been almost three minutes!" Batman thundered. "How is there nothing?!"

"You're…_Batman_!"

The quiet exclamation came from behind them and both men turned around in surprise.

Dick was standing by the Bat-pole, his eyes wide with both shock and excitement.

"You're Batman!" he whispered incredulously, almost as if he were talking to himself.

"Dick, you shouldn't be down here."

"Come on, Master Dick, let's go back up to bed."

"So _that's_ why I'm not supposed to go in the study," the boy murmured. "And you have a fireman pole behind your bookcase!" he declared, as if the men had no idea of its existence.

"It's a Bat-pole, Dick, not a fireman's pole," Batman grumbled. "And why were you in the study?"

"I…well, I decided to show you everything. I knocked but you didn't answer so I kept knocking but then I thought something was wrong so I just went in but you weren't there and your bookcase was closing and I thought maybe you were in some secret room but I didn't know there would be a _pole that I could slide down_!"

Two sets of adult eyes widened. They had heard the entire rambling sentence but one main thing had registered.

"Everything?!" the men exclaimed at the same time.

"Sorry," Dick's voice had dropped to a whisper. "I…you were so mad earlier. I didn't want to make it worse."

"I wasn't mad at _you_, kiddo," Batman stated roughly as images of his ward's torso rolled through his mind. "But you should have continued. I need all the information, Dick, so I can take care of this."

Sighing softly, the nine-year-old pulled up his pajama pants and the men discovered why the boy had stopped wearing shorts. His thighs looked like they had been dipped in a vat of blueberry juice and then carelessly spattered with purple paint.

"How are your legs worse than your torso?" Batman demanded.

"Oh, I didn't mean, these aren't from _him_," Dick replied. "Um, I'm just going to go back to bed now."

"Dick," Batman growled, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Sighing, the boy released his hold on his pants. He realized, too late, that intending to tell the men everything had been a mistake. They didn't need to know that Mr. Jerkens wasn't the only bully.

"Sorry," Dick mumbled as he dropped his eyes to the ground.

"Master Dick, there is no reason for you to apologize. Please continue your explanation, young sir."

"Well, now he's mad again and it's all my fault! I shouldn't have come down here."

There was a beat of silence and then he added, "This place is really cool, though."

"Again, Dick, I'm not mad at you. Is it another teacher?"

"Just some kid in my class," the nine-year-old responded as he lifted his head. "I don't know his name so asking that question won't work."

"_How do you not know his name?!_" Batman nearly roared.

"Master Batman," Alfred softly cautioned.

Clenching his jaw in frustration, Batman amended the question.

"What is he doing to make your legs look like that?" he asked, his tone softer but still overflowing with anger.

"He just stepped on me, it's not a big deal," Dick replied with a shrug.

Both men raised their eyebrows in disbelief. Having dark-blue thighs was 'not a big deal'?

"So, you were playing and he just came over…?"

Dick ran a hand through his hair in exasperation. The thought that this had been a mistake raced through his mind again.

"Come on, kiddo, spit it out. What happened?"

"The first time it was an accident."

"The _FIRST TIME_?!"

Batman wanted to punch something but the only thing close enough was the Bat-computer.

"Yeah, well, we were in PE," Dick stated, unconsciously rubbing the back of his neck. "We were racing, I was winning, I tripped on a rock and he stumbled over me. He accidentally kicked me and then we were both up and running again. But then he beat me to the gym, for the first time ever, but only because I couldn't run full speed. So then he decided that winning was fun – which it definitely is – but he can't win unless I'm injured. Once in a while he just messes around a little but yesterday…"

"Was more than 'just a little'," Batman finished when the boy abruptly stopped talking. Dick nodded with another sigh.

"It's my fault. I finally beat him even though I was injured. He wasn't very happy about it. His face was as red as a ripe tomato and he yelled that I wasn't supposed to win because I'm such a wimp when I get hurt. Which, by the way, I'M NOT!"

The last phrase was full of irritation and both men knew why it was there. Dick had a strong aversion to losing at anything. And, as both men had recently discovered, he had a very high level of pain tolerance.

"Anyway," the boy continued, "I reminded him that I had just won but I should have kept my mouth shut."

"Master Dick, it is not your fault that this boy cannot contain his anger."

Rolling his eyes, Dick replied, "I tend to be sarcastic and sometimes I'm on the wrong side of taunting. I couldn't stop myself from saying it, even though I knew it would upset him. So, like I said, it _is_ my fault."

"No, kiddo, it's not. True, you probably shouldn't have said that but his reaction, which I'm sure you're about to tell us, was completely inappropriate."

"I did tell you," Dick declared, refusing to look at either man.

"Details, young sir. Batman wants details."

"This is stupid," the boy muttered. "I shouldn't have…just forget it."

Batman threw his arms in the air then turned around and punched the table. The Bat-computer shuddered and Dick's eyes grew wide.

"Okay!" he shouted. "One of his friends was behind me and I didn't know it and he grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me to the ground and then whats-his-name stomped on my legs and then they just left and I was late back to class because it hurt to walk and that made Mr. Jerkens mad and then today I answered that question and so he was really mad and _I hate school_! But I actually don't because I like to learn about things but it's not as fun when people are mean all the time and I don't understand _WHY_!"

The words were flying out of the boy's mouth, making it difficult for the men to understand them. His tone, however, was unmistakable. First it was confusion but that was quickly replaced by anger. Then it was slightly fearful and, by the time he had ended his rant, all the men heard was misery.

"And now Mr. Jerkens wants me to come in early on Monday so he can tell me what you'll be hearing at parent teacher conference on Tuesday. But I don't want to because he's mean and I'm _scared_!"

"Dick…" Batman began but was immediately interrupted.

"He'll kill you," Dick whispered and the tears began anew. "He knows everything about you, Bruce! He knows when you have meetings and he knows when you have to go out of town and he knows when you're at parties. He can get to you anytime he wants!"

The child was on the verge of hyperventilation and could barely get the words out. Both men were instantly on either side of him, attempting to calm him down and reminding him how to breathe.

Batman was struggling to contain his rage. He understood why the kid had reacted that way, and so did Dick, but he was confused about the man. Why was the teacher picking on _Dick_, who was so innocent and trusting and…

"Because you trust him," Batman whispered, his tone full of fury. "He has the power because you don't – won't – question anything he says or does."

"I'm sorry, Br…Batman! What do you want me to do? I don't want to ask him…"

"_NO!_" Batman roared.

Dick flinched and took several steps backward. Batman took a deep breath and channeled the anger into his body, successfully erasing it from his voice.

"You don't need to do anything, Dick. As soon as I get an address, this will get straightened out. But…do you know why, kiddo?"

"I'm smarter than him?" the boy questioned softly with a touch of pride in his tone.

Alfred chuckled and Batman almost smiled. It was probably true; Dick's intelligence level was way above average and the man was intimidated. So, the teacher had become a bully. A very strong, very threatening, very _frightening_ bully.

Going down on one knee, Batman motioned to the boy and Dick obediently walked over.

"Remember I said I'm a personal friend of Batman and that he would take care of it?"

Dick nodded with a slight grin.

"So, obviously, Batman is going to take of this, right?"

Another nod and the grin grew a little brighter.

"And of course he can take care of whats-his-name, who is just a kid, right? Whenever something happens to you, good or bad, I need to know, okay?"

The nod was smaller this time and the grin disappeared.

"Neither Bruce nor Batman can keep you completely safe unless they know what's going on in your life. Please don't ever hide anything from me again, especially something like this."

Dick was silent and still, Batman didn't even receive a nod.

"Okay?" the hero prodded gently.

"If I had known you were Batman," the boy accused with another small smirk, "I wouldn't have had to worry about him killing you. Then I could have told you right away."

The faithful butler chuckled again and Batman glanced back to glare at him.

"That brings up an important point, kiddo. This," the hero motioned around the Batcave, "has to be a complete secret. You can never tell _anyone_, no matter what. We would all be in serious danger if anybody were to discover my identity."

Dick raised his right hand and solemnly stated, "I will never tell anyone that my amazing guardian is the equally amazing Batman, _no matter what_."

"It's late, Master Dick," Alfred declared, "and you have school. Time for bed."

"Thanks, Batman," the boy whispered. He put his small but strong arms around the muscular torso of the Caped Crusader and squeezed him as hard as he could.

Before Batman could reciprocate, or even open his mouth to reply, the boy had zipped away into the tunnel that led to the service elevator.

With an amused and grateful glance at Batman, Alfred turned to follow.

"Should he stay home?" Batman asked, causing the butler to pause and turn back around. "He has a black eye, people are bound to ask about it."

"Perhaps you're right, Master Batman," Alfred responded. "I will let him sleep in; he definitely needs a good night of sleep."

Nodding, Batman turned to the Bat-computer, impatiently waiting for the machine to spit out an address. Or at least some information about the man who was terrorizing the ward of Bruce Wayne, a millionaire who had several very strong friends in high places.

* * *

**The apartment of Harold Jerkens – two o'clock in the morning:**

"Wake up," Batman demanded softly.

The bedroom window was open and the Caped Crusader had easily entered without a sound. Jerkens – Jerkface, Batman amended – was fast asleep and snoring loudly. He refused to wake up to the quiet command so Batman changed his tactic.

Grabbing the blanket resting on top of the man, the hero ripped it off the bed and whipped it against the wall. The result was a loud 'smack' and Harold Jerkens awoke with a start, only to find the intimidating shadow of the Caped Crusader looming over him.

"Batman?"

Harold's voice was both astonished and relieved. He didn't know why Batman was standing in his bedroom but he was grateful that it wasn't a criminal ready to kill him.

"Why are you picking on Dick Grayson?" Batman demanded, his voice low but the words full of fury.

"What?!" Harold exclaimed. "Who is Dick Grayson?"

That made Batman pause. He was expecting a denial of abuse but claiming that he didn't even know the boy was beyond that.

"He's in your class, at Gotham Elementary."

"I'm not even a teacher!" Harold stated in disbelief. "I'm an engineer, at Wayne Enterprises! You can talk to Evan Smirl, he's my manager and has access to Mr. Wayne!"

_Evan Smirl_.

Batman immediately recognized the name. The only way this man would know that name was if he was in the engineering department of Wayne Enterprises.

"Someone's lying," Batman growled before turning back to the window. Without another word or even a glance back, the Caped Crusader slid through the opening and raced to the Batmobile.

Had Dick lied to him or was the teacher calling himself Mr. Jerkens instead of his real name? Or maybe there was another Jerkens that the Bat-computer had somehow missed.

Batman suddenly found himself back in the Batcave. He climbed out of the Batmobile, a tinge of confusion surrounding the fury that was still flowing through his veins. The Bat-computer received a cursory glance as he strode by – there were no other cards with the name Jerkens.

Apparently, there was only one way to resolve this issue. Instead of Dick Grayson on Monday, it would be Batman meeting Mr. Jerkens in his classroom before school started today, Friday.

He climbed on the Bat-pole, pushed the Compressed Steam Lift button and was quickly returned to his study in Wayne Manor. Bruce exited, climbed the stairs and carefully pushed Dick's door open. The boy was fast asleep, although he was trembling slightly, and the man thought about just going in there now.

The thought was a fleeting one, however. Bruce also needed a restful night of sleep; maybe his ward would have a rare night of good dreams. It had happened a few times and the man really hoped it would happen tonight.

"Good night, kiddo," he whispered, "and I promise this will be taken care of before you go back to school."

Softly closing the door, the millionaire went to his own room, climbed into bed and promptly fell asleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Note: Thanks for the review, finalotte!

* * *

Both of his charges had, it seemed, slept peacefully through the night and Alfred was relieved. Humming as he prepared breakfast, the butler smiled as the image of a kneeling Batman comforting a young Dick Grayson appeared in his head.

"Good morning, Master Bruce," Alfred stated when he heard movement behind him.

"Oh, um, hi, Alfred."

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, the butler turned around. Dick was downstairs before Bruce?!

"Um, my alarm didn't go off and it's almost seven-thirty. I don't have time for breakfast; I'm going to get in trouble."

"You have the day off, young sir, with Master Bruce's permission. Three days of rest will be good for you."

"But I can't miss Fridays! Those are teacher meeting days and Mr. Jerkens is gone until lunch! It's the best day of the week!"

"Master Dick, today you need to rest. Everything will be taken care of before you return to school on Monday."

Meanwhile, in the Batcave, Batman was pacing in frustration. The man had a substitute today; the woman had told him about the in-service meetings and that all teachers would be gone until classes resumed in the afternoon.

"I'll just have to meet him after school," the hero grumbled, annoyed that the school was disrupting his perfect plan.

The Caped Crusader, after two hours of deep sleep and then three hours of restless half-sleeping, had returned to the Batcave and prepared to go meet Mr. Jerkens. He had a speech ready and knew exactly what tone he was going to use for each word. But, he also didn't really care about the speech. Maybe he would beat now and ask questions later.

When he had stalked into the man's classroom, however, he had been greeted by the sweet old lady who substituted in Dick's class every Friday morning. Batman had been supremely frustrated but had managed to be polite to the woman.

And now, here he was, impatiently waiting for almost six hours to pass so he could talk to the man who was secretly assaulting an innocent child. As if the nine-year-old hadn't had enough trauma in his life already.

Batman also needed to find out the identity of the kid who had turned Dick's legs into the color of plum pudding. He didn't know how he was going to do that. Yet. His only idea right now was following his ward around school but that would embarrass the boy.

Maybe not, if he went as Batman on Monday. He could talk the principal into letting him 'test' the security equipment. While reviewing the school's cameras, if there were any, he could add some Bat-cameras. A slight grin of satisfaction swept across his face. This afternoon was going to be interesting and Monday was going to be productive.

* * *

**Gotham Elementary – three o'clock:**

The bell to signal the end of the school day had just rung. Batman was across the street, leaning against the front end of the Batmobile and waiting for the mob of kids to dissipate. He watched as the little kindergartners were walked to the parent pick-up area, saw a gaggle of sixth grade girls giggle about something that was probably nonsensical and noticed several teachers ushering the kids away from campus. Was one of them…

"Mr. Jerkins!"

A tall, very muscular man walked out of the front entrance of the school. He smiled at the boy who had just called to him and waved to a group of younger boys who were running towards him.

By Batman's estimation, the man was about six feet, seven inches and around two hundred and sixty pounds. There wasn't an ounce of fat on him; it was pure muscle. The Caped Crusader, at six feet three inches, came in at a much leaner but still solid two hundred twenty-seven pounds. Dick was right – Batman, in stature, was no match for Mr. Jerkens.

Batman, however, had years of fighting experience on his side. The teacher looked young, maybe twenty-six, and didn't move like a man who knew how to fight. And why, Batman wondered as he watched the man interact with a plethora of kids who were now jumping excitedly around him, was Dick being treated so differently?

Mr. Jerkens didn't look the least bit like a frightening bully. He had a genuine smile on his face and was now crouching in front of the kids and doing some sort of magic trick. Confusion raced through the mind of the Caped Crusader. Batman trusted Dick, implicitly, but this Mr. Jerkens didn't look at all like the monster his boy had described yesterday.

Then, from the back of the school, a dark-haired man stalked toward the teacher parking lot. His build was nearly the same as Mr. Jerkens, who was standing and shaking a parent's hand. But the stranger walked with a confident swagger, his large hands clenched into fists by his sides and a dark frown on his face. It was obvious to Batman that this man knew his way around a boxing ring, or something similar.

The man was unlocking a very used but very shiny ruby-red pickup truck when Batman suddenly appeared beside him. He instantly dropped his keys and jumped into a fighting stance. Batman stepped closer, invading the stranger's personal space.

"What do you teach?" he snarled.

"None of your business," the man snarled back.

"It is when one of your students is being assaulted," Batman retorted furiously.

"I don't know what you're talking about, I'm just the _janitor_," the man spat angrily.

"Name," the Caped Crusader demanded.

"None of your business," the muscular man repeated. "Should we do this here or behind the school where you won't be humiliated?"

"I will give you one more chance. _NAME_!"

The last word thundered around the parking lot and the chattering around them stopped. Batman knew that everyone was now watching and that he would have to choose his actions carefully.

The silence grew as the men glared at each other. Batman was four inches shorter and he hated having to look up at the man. No wonder nine-year-old Dick, standing a mere four feet and weighing just under fifty pounds, was terrified of this man.

"Marty! Marty Jerkins, what do you think you are doing?!"

The loud voice came from behind Batman, in the direction of the school. The man in front of the Caped Crusader growled but dropped his hands, which had been up defensively ever since Batman had appeared. He straightened up and the hero immediately noticed the name tag on the man's uniform – Marty Jerkins.

"So it's with an 'i' instead of an 'e'," the hero murmured. No wonder the Bat-computer hadn't been able to give him more information. He had input "Jerkens" not "Jerkins".

A tall but skinny man appeared from Batman's right, his face full of fury.

"First of all, what are you doing here, Batman? Second, why do you two look like you're about to fight? And finally, why aren't you in the computer lab doing your _job_?!"

Marty flinched before turning his gaze to the newly-arrived man.

"He's accusing me of something I didn't do," Marty stated, glancing at Batman then immediately looking back at his boss.

"Kindly step away from my employee, _sir_, and tell me what you are doing here!"

Batman growled and moved his Bat-glare from Marty's face to that of the man he recognized as the principal.

"I have reliable information that a Mr. Jerkins is assaulting one of your students."

The principal, Sam Mercer, burst into loud laughter and Marty sneered at Batman condescendingly.

"Marty wouldn't hurt a fly," Sam declared. "He looks and acts tough but he would never assault anyone, especially not a child!"

"How do you know?" the Caped Crusader growled again.

"Because if he does even one tiny thing wrong, he goes back to jail! He's got an anklet that tracks all of his movements and his watch has a camera!"

"Something is going on at this school!" Batman shouted. "One of your students has been repeatedly assaulted and nobody is doing anything about it! Who at this school is capable of such a thing and why hasn't he been fired?!"

"Who is this alleged victim?" the principal inquired, his tone full of disbelief. "Nothing like that would ever happen at my school. Marty, dismissed."

The muscular man left and the skinny principal stared at Batman for several seconds.

"Why don't you come to my office and we can discuss this privately."

The Caped Crusader nodded brusquely and followed the man into the building.

"As you can see, we have a very bright…"

"I don't need the tour and speech," Batman interrupted. "Just get to your office."

Shaking his head, Sam lengthened his strides and they made it to his office in less than three minutes.

"Please, Batman, have a seat."

Sam motioned to a large chair in front of an even larger desk. Then he strode around the desk and sat in his leather chair. Rocking back and forth, he steepled his fingers together and stared at Batman quizzically.

"Now, who is this alleged victim?"

"That is information that you don't need to know until I figure this out."

"Come now, Batman, are you saying that I'm a suspect?" Sam asked incredulously.

"Everyone is a suspect for now."

"Well, what evidence do you have?"

Bruce had been smart enough to take pictures of Dick's torso – both front and back – and his arms without showing any identifying features. Batman pulled them out of his utility belt and tossed them onto the principal's desk.

Sam picked them up one by one and carefully examined each of them. Then he rolled his eyes and chuckled.

"I would know this body anywhere," he declared. "Did little Dick Grayson tell you that a teacher was assaulting him, or perhaps that one of the kids did this?"

Batman was shocked but didn't allow his expression to show it. How did the man know it was Dick and why did he sound so apathetic?!

"Here's the situation. Dick Grayson, in case you don't know this, lost his parents in a circus accident. He's now the ward of millionaire Bruce Wayne. I've never seen such an angry child, Batman. He constantly picks fights with other kids and, since he's so small, loses a lot. These bruises are not from an unprovoked attack on an innocent child. He's a bully, Batman, a small but strong bully who can't protect himself but starts fights anyway."

Batman's mind was reeling. He trusted Dick but the principal sounded very convincing. And Batman could see, in his mind, an image of a young, angry Bruce Wayne whose face then morphed into the youthful features of Dick Grayson.

"You should talk to the boy again, Batman, and confront him with this information. He'll try to lie his way out of it, I'm sure, but the kid wears his emotions on his sleeve. You'll see what I'm talking about if you just start with this information."

"Yes, Mr. Mercer, we _will_ see. Thank you for taking the time to talk to me."

The words were low but full of anger. Abruptly, the Caped Crusader stood up and exited the office. As he strode to the Batmobile, he couldn't help but hear the principal's accusation:

"He's a bully, Batman…"

* * *

**Two hours later:**

Dick was picking at his dinner and Bruce was staring at him. He didn't know how to start the conversation but knew he needed to do it soon. Sam Mercer's statements had been reverberating around Batman's head since he had left the school and he needed answers.

"He told you I was lying, didn't he?" Dick suddenly asked quietly. "He said I'm the one who starts fights and nobody else would ever do anything like _this_, right? I'm the troublemaker, the bully, that's what he said, isn't it?"

Bruce could hear the thick emotion in his ward's voice. He could also see the shaking hands and trembling bottom lip of the nine-year-old.

"_Didn't he_?!" Dick shouted, startling Bruce.

"Yes."

"And you believe him, don't you? Nobody would ever believe some circus freak who can't control his anger. Why should you? I've only been here for one month, you hardly know anything about me."

"Dick, I trust you. But Mr. Mercer was very convincing. I want to believe you but I just…"

"Mr. _Mercer_ told you this?!" Dick yelled, disbelief clearly woven through the words. Shoving his chair away from the table, the boy stood up and threw his arms in the air.

"I thought it was only my teacher but he's got the principal in on it, too?! Well, of course you have to believe the principal. He would never lie! Fine, Bruce, I'll take the punishment. I just won't say anything anymore and let everyone do whatever they want to me. If Mr. Mercer says I'm the bully then it has to be true. I'm done, may I be excused?"

The question was snarled and Bruce was in shock. He didn't know what to think anymore, everything was contradictory and nothing made any sense. Why would the principal lie about something like this but, conversely, why would _Dick_ lie?

"No, Dick, we need to figure this out," Bruce replied. "Sit down."

The boy didn't move so Bruce sharply repeated the command.

Dick flopped onto his chair and swept a hand across his still-bruised cheek. There was no way Bruce was going to believe him. And now he was going to be sent to the detention center, where they had wanted him to go in the first place. Somehow, he had screwed everything up. If he hadn't received the black eye, none of this would have happened. Next time he would duck or try to block or something. But, there wouldn't be a next time so he tossed the image away.

"I need the truth, kiddo," the man stated quietly.

"I told you the truth!" the boy declared, frustration clearly evident in his tone. "But it doesn't matter, just send me away. According to Mr. Jerkins I deserve the detention center so just…"

Dick couldn't finish. A knot filled his throat and a heavy ball of despair made his breath catch in his chest.

"Why would I send you to the detention center, Dick?" Bruce asked, his tone full of surprise.

"Because I'm a bully, right?" the nine-year-old whispered as tears began coursing down his cheeks. "Just get it over with, send me tonight. I can't stay when you look like that."

"Like what, kiddo?"

"Disappointed."

"Dick, I'm not…I don't know…help me out here."

"How?! How am I supposed to help you when I've told you everything but you don't know whether or not to believe me?! Did you even _talk_ to Mr. Jerkins?!"

"Which one?"

"Which…? Oh, you mean the criminal guy. No, not him. His brother, the _nice_ one who loves all the kids and wouldn't ever do anything to hurt anybody. The one who is always smiling and does magic tricks and is so _friendly_ and doesn't even look dangerous. Yeah, that guy."

"No, I didn't think…"

"Of course you didn't think to talk to him, he's nice to everybody. _EXCEPT ME_!" Dick interrupted. The last two words were shouted and caused Alfred to rush into the room.

"Master Dick, Master Bruce!"

"Sorry, Alfred, but I guess this is goodbye," Dick stated as he glanced at the butler before dropping his eyes to the ground.

"Goodbye…?"

Bruce sighed. "No, Dick, I'm not sending you away. I'll talk to the other guy."

"Not as Batman," Dick retorted. "Mr. Mercer knows that Batman now knows the 'truth' about Dick Grayson. The little circus freak who turned into a bully and loses fights all the time because he's so small."

Dick's tone was bitter now and Alfred was staring at Bruce in disbelief.

The silence was overwhelming and awkward. Dick's head was in his hands and Bruce had unconsciously folded his arms across his chest.

Alfred quietly walked to Bruce's side and leaned down.

"Bat-cameras might help this situation, sir," he whispered in the man's ear.

With a curt nod, Bruce stood up. Dick didn't acknowledge the movement at all. The man roughly ran a hand through his own hair, completely frustrated with the situation.

"I'm going downstairs, kiddo, if you want to join me."

Dick knew that 'downstairs' meant the Batcave but he wasn't going to go anywhere with anyone right now. He still didn't move so Bruce sighed and left the dining room, headed for his study.

"Master Dick," Alfred began but the boy abruptly stood up and walked away.

With a quiet sigh of his own, the butler began clearing the table. He could hear Dick stomping up the stairs and hoped that the boy was going to lie down. It was obvious that the nine-year-old needed to rest.

Dick, however, had other ideas. He didn't want to see the disappointment on Bruce's face when the man dropped him off at the detention center. Therefore, he was going to leave before that could happen.

He walked into his room and grabbed his backpack off the floor. The school books and notes and pencil box were tossed out, landing haphazardly on the desk and ground. Clothes replaced the school items; he was able to stuff two pairs of jeans and three shirts in before zipping it up.

Swinging the bag over his right shoulder, Dick carefully peeked out the door. Nobody was around – he could hear Alfred humming in the kitchen – so he crept down the stairs. He made it to the door but realized that the butler would hear it open and close. Moving into the living room, he quietly opened the French doors that led to the garden. With one last glance behind him, Dick strode outside and ran toward the back gate. It opened into a large forest; Bruce wouldn't be able to find him for a while, if at all.

In the Batcave, Batman noticed a small movement from the Bat-camera near the south side of Wayne Manor. He realized that the French doors were open, which was very unusual since the night air was calm. Then there was another movement: a small body racing across the lawn toward the back gate. Dick was about to get himself lost in the gigantic forest that stretched six square miles beyond the gates of the Manor.

Batman flew to the Batmobile and roared out through the tunnel. He wouldn't be able to maneuver the vehicle through the dense trees, but at least he would get to the forest before Dick had a chance to vanish into the shadows.

* * *

Dick heard the roar of the Batmobile as he entered the edge of the forest. He knew it was too big to traverse the trees but he also knew that Batman was fast. A quick decision was made and the boy shrugged off his backpack as he began sprinting. One set of clothing would have to do, even though his jeans and sweatshirt would wear out quickly in the upcoming winter. But he was faster without the backpack and speed was more important right now.

The trees became unfamiliar – he had never been this far into the forest. However, he could hear Batman crashing through the shrubbery so he took off in the opposite direction. Dick knew he could dart through small spaces that the larger Batman would have to go around, which gave him a slight advantage. But Batman had longer strides and could easily jump over fallen trees that Dick would have to climb over, which negated the boy's advantage.

"_Dick, don't do this! We can work this out!_"

Ignoring the words and slightly frantic tone of voice, Dick vaulted over a small log and somehow increased his speed. He was too much trouble for Bruce, the man shouldn't have to be trying to decide if the principal of a school was lying. Mr. Jerkins was right, Dick Grayson was a troublemaker and didn't belong there. Or anywhere, for that matter. Everyone would be better off without him.

The thoughts rumbling around in his mind distracted him and the nine-year-old tripped over a small boulder. The stumble sent him tumbling to the ground and his world went dark.

* * *

Batman could hear, just barely, the swishing of leaves that was the result of a small pair of shoes dashing through them. Dick was fast but he was also small. The Caped Crusader was confident that he would soon catch up to the boy. But, just in case…

"_Dick, don't do this! We can work this out!_"

The man was surprised at the sound of his voice. He sounded almost…panicked? But Batman never panicked, Batman was always confident and proud and emotionless. Bruce Wayne, however, was frantic. Dick was going to be lost, gone forever, all because Batman didn't know who to believe.

A quiet 'thud' echoed in front of him and Batman sped up. He leapt over a boulder and almost landed on a small silhouette lying motionless on the ground. Whipping his Bat-flashlight out of his utility belt, the hero shined it on the limp form. There was blood near his head but Batman could tell that it was a superficial wound.

Sighing in both relief and consternation, the Caped Crusader replaced the Bat-flashlight in his utility belt, bent down and scooped up his young ward. Somehow the boy had made it two and a half miles into the forest in just under ten minutes. That was impressive, even to Batman.

"Let's go home, kiddo. I'll figure this out, I promise. Batman always keeps his promises."


	5. Chapter 5

**The next day:**

It started out like any other Saturday. Bruce was already at the table, reading the newspaper, by the time Dick came downstairs. This time, however, the man put the paper down and motioned to the boy. The nine-year-old obediently went to the chair by his guardian and slowly sat down.

"I watched the videos from every single school security camera last night."

"You can do that?!" Dick exclaimed, thoroughly impressed and anxiously excited. Video tapes don't lie so the boy knew he was about to be exonerated.

"I do have some…special…machines," Bruce replied with a slight grin which immediately disappeared. "Anyway, the evidence on the tape is not too good for you. Every time there's a fight, you're in the middle of it. I don't know if you start it," the man's voice hardened, "but you're always there."

Dick's mouth dropped open in shock. He had no idea how this was possible. The only fight he'd been in was the one with whats-his-name after PE, and that wasn't even a fight!

"I…Bruce, that's not possible! I've never…you really think…"

"The evidence is irrefutable. Security tapes don't lie, Dick."

"I…don't know what to say."

"How about if you tell me the truth?!" the man shouted.

The boy flinched and slumped in his chair.

"I already did," he whispered sadly. "But it doesn't matter anymore. I've never fought anyone but I can't prove it so just punish me now. Whatever you're going to do, I can take it. I've been through worse."

"What do you think I'm going to do?" Bruce asked, fury evident in his tone.

"I don't know. I'm pretty sure you won't beat me up but maybe that's what you think I deserve."

Tears were sliding down the nine-year-old's cheeks and he wasn't doing anything to stop them. He had no control over what was about to happen, and that scared him, but he would just have to deal with it. There was no other choice.

"Dick, I would never hit you," Bruce stated and this time his tone was full of surprise.

"Well, everyone else does so I'm used to it. Oh, wait, everyone does because I bully them into it."

The last sentence was full of sarcasm and accompanied by a hand swiping the tears off his young face.

"I can't believe you're going to stick with that story. After all the evidence I saw on the tapes, you're still going to tell me that you're the innocent one in all of this?!"

"Just get it over with," Dick shouted. "Whatever it is you're going to do, just do it!"

The loud sound caused Alfred to rush into the room, just as he had yesterday.

"Master Bruce!" he exclaimed and the man glanced at him before turning his gaze back to Dick.

"Master Dick?" the butler asked quietly.

"It's over, Alfred. Nobody will ever believe me."

Alfred stared at the boy in shock before giving his older charge a slight glare.

"Have you tried the…_other_…cameras, sir?"

"I don't have any there yet, Alfred," Bruce growled. "But the school's security tapes show me everything I need to know."

"Well, sir, before you do something you'll regret, maybe you should _add_ some at the school. Perhaps their security tapes have a way of being altered?"

"I doubt it. Who would have the technology to do that? Besides me, of course."

Turning back toward the kitchen, Alfred stated coldly, "I hope you know what you're doing, _Master Bruce_."

Bruce sighed then glared at Dick. "What do you think I should do?"

"To punish me? I don't know, you're the adult," the boy replied snidely.

"Is that the kind of attitude you display at school, young man?" Bruce growled again.

"No, but you won't believe that. You think I'm some kind of monster who can't control himself. Maybe you _should_ just beat me to a pulp."

Shaking his head in exasperation, the man stated, "I already said that I would never hit you."

"Well," the nine-year-old stated quietly, "you're beating me up inside so why not let it show on the outside?"

Bruce was surprised again. That was a deep thought, something he would never expect from a child.

"In your room for today, Dick. I'll figure something out and let you know later."

Nodding his head, the boy stood up and started toward the stairs.

"Breakfast first," the man commanded but Dick shook his head and raced away.

This time it was Bruce who slumped in his chair. Maybe he _should_ put some Bat-cameras around the school. But, now that he knew the truth, Dick probably wouldn't be starting fights anymore. For a little while, at least.

"What will you lose if you put up those Bat-cameras, sir?" Alfred's soft voice interrupted his thoughts. "Nothing. But if you don't and later learn that you were wrong? You have a lot to lose then, sir. The trust of a child who is hurting both physically and emotionally, the light that he brings to this house, his happiness…a _lot_, Master Bruce."

The butler began clearing the table and Bruce stood up. Alfred was right; putting Bat-cameras around the school wouldn't hurt anything.

* * *

**Monday morning – Gotham Elementary**

Dick arrived early to school, just as his teacher had commanded. His eyes stayed on the floor and his heart was beating rapidly. What was going to happen this time?

"You know why you're here?" Mr. Jerkins snarled as the boy closed the door.

Nodding, Dick walked over to the teacher's desk and placed his backpack on the floor.

"How?" he whispered bravely.

"How what?" the man growled.

"How did you alter the tapes? I'm not a bully!"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Mr. Jerkins folded his arms across his chest and frowned at the small child in front of him. The boy was shaking and sniffling and his hands were clenched into fists.

"I'm going to explain your anger and disobedience to your guardian tomorrow. He won't want you anymore."

"Then why give me all those notes praising my behavior and work?"

"Why would I want Bruce Wayne to know anything about our little conferences? I have to admit that you're intelligent and your apparent inability to remain engaged doesn't affect your work or anyone around you. Therefore, the notes."

"What are you going to…to do?" Dick whispered, fear evident in his quiet voice.

"Nothing, for today. Apparently your guardian now knows that you fight everyone in sight so he's going to think that you'll stop since he knows the 'truth'. But after I talk to him tomorrow afternoon, he'll toss you out of his house. Nobody else will want a circus freak so you'll either be on the streets or in the detention center. Either way, the punishment will fit the crime."

"But I haven't done anything wrong!" Dick shouted as he lifted his head. Glaring into the surprised eyes of his teacher, the boy yelled, "I come to school, I stay quiet about you, I let kids do whatever they want to me. What have I done that's even a little bit wrong?!"

"First of all," Mr. Jerkins snarled, "shut up. Second, you're here. _That's_ what you've done wrong. You should have stayed with the stupid circus when your parents died but I guess they didn't want you either!"

"You shut up!" Dick snarled back and was rewarded with a large hand smacking him across the right side of his face.

The momentum shoved him sideways and he hit the left side of his head on a desk. Blood spurted from the wound and the man tossed a box of tissues at Dick.

"Clean yourself up then go to the principal's office. Poor Johnny almost got beat up today because little Dick got mad."

Tears mingled with the blood but the nine-year-old grabbed some tissues and pushed them hard against his head. He could feel his right cheek swelling and soon he couldn't see out of his right eye.

"Go!" the man suddenly demanded.

Scrambling to his feet, Dick grabbed his backpack and raced out the door. In the right-hand corner of the ceiling in the classroom, a small Bat-camera sent the video of the altercation back to the Batcave, where the Bat-camera receiver machine beeped loudly.

* * *

Bruce Wayne, unfortunately, had a morning full of meetings but was able to return to the Manor for lunch. The first place he went was the Batcave and he immediately noticed the red dot blinking on the Bat-camera receiver machine. Quickly striding over, he pressed rewind and then, with trepidation in his eyes, played the tape.

Batman heard every word, saw every action and when it was over he punched the table in frustration. He had been wrong. Somehow somebody had altered the school tapes but he had believed them over the word of the boy who had never lied to him. Dick had hidden some injuries, yes, but had never outright lied to his guardian.

Racing back to his Bat-pole, Batman flew up to the Manor and ran to the kitchen.

"Is Dick home?!" he yelled somewhat breathlessly when he saw Alfred near the stove.

"No, Master Bruce, why would he be here? School doesn't end for three more hours."

"I was wrong, Alfred," Bruce whispered in despair. "There is now a Bat-camera in Dick's classroom and what I saw…"

He trailed off as the entire video replayed in his mind. The fear that was followed by defiance, the blood and tears, the eye that had already swollen shut, the threats about being thrown out and nobody wanting the boy.

"It was that bad, sir?" Alfred inquired quietly.

"Worse," Bruce responded, the word full of anguish. "He's completely innocent, Alfred, but I blamed him! He's always been honest with us but I didn't care. The evidence against him was perfect but it was wrong! And he was just going to accept whatever punishment I decided to give him! What was I thinking?!"

"You weren't, _sir_," the faithful butler remarked angrily. "Forgive me if I'm crossing boundaries, but the Bat-cameras should have been placed before you just accused him of everything."

"You're right," the younger man agreed quietly. "He's never going to trust me again. I'm an idiot, Alfred."

"Yes, Master Bruce, you are," Alfred stated before opening the oven to check the chicken he was roasting for dinner. "You have," the butler glanced at his watch, "a little over two and a half hours to figure out how to fix this. Lunch is on the table."

The last sentence was obviously a dismissal and Bruce, even though he was supposed to be the one in charge, obeyed his butler and left the kitchen.

* * *

**Monday afternoon:**

Dick silently opened the front door and peeked his head through. Nobody was around so he slid through the opening and sprinted up the stairs. His hair was full of dried blood and the right side of his face was numb but he wasn't going to let anybody see it.

Bruce, however, was already in Dick's room. The boy shoved the door open and dropped his backpack on the floor. He was on his way to the bathroom when he heard a quiet noise, like someone clearing their throat.

The nine-year-old glanced to his left and noticed a figure sitting in the shadows. Dropping his head, Dick faced the silhouette and waited for the lecture he was sure was coming.

"I saw the whole thing," Bruce stated quietly, his tone tinged with shame. "I put a Bat-camera," that word was whispered, "in your classroom. I saw…everything."

The man choked on the last word and the boy crumpled to the ground. Was 'everything' actually _everything_? Had Bruce been able to hear Dick yelling at a teacher? His guardian was probably upset about that. Dick hadn't been punished yet but his body tensed in anticipation. Bruce was disappointed, of that Dick was positive.

"I shouldn't have yelled at him," the boy declared. "I'll apologize tomorrow."

"What?!" Bruce shouted in disbelief.

Lifting his head, Dick stated, "I'm sorry for yelling. I shouldn't disrespect a teacher like that. I…you'll probably hear about it at teacher conference tomorrow. Sorry."

The last word was full of sadness and Bruce's heart constricted in pain. The child, after all of the trauma in his young life, shouldn't have to apologize. But here he was, expressing regret for yelling at someone who had then slapped him so hard that the boy's face looked like a plum speckled with small bits of blueberries. Not to mention the eye that wouldn't open and the dried river of blood that was matting his hair.

"It's not your fault, kiddo. I saw what he did…what he _said_. I will be suing him and Batman will be talking to him. The one apologizing should be me. The school's security videos, somehow, were compromised. But I believed what I thought was hard evidence over the word of a boy who has never lied to me. I'm sorry, Dick."

"It doesn't matter now. Mr. Mercer is going to kick me out of the school because I 'fought' with Johnny. The only other place is…"

"The detention center," Bruce finished quietly. He received a small nod and felt anger begin to rise in his chest.

"It's not going to happen, kiddo. Batman has proof now, too. And Bat-camera videos are impossible to alter. Commissioner Gordon knows it and tonight he will be watching the video from this morning."

"You're going to show other people?!" Dick gasped, despair filling his voice.

"It's proof of criminal activity! Of course I'm going to show the commissioner! This guy is a criminal who needs to go to jail."

"Something's going to happen, Bruce, if you do that. Mr. Jerkins has a brother. If Mr. Jerkins the teacher goes to jail, then Mr. Jerkins the janitor will do something."

Dick's tone was full of fear and Bruce could hear the warning that outlined the words.

"The janitor can't do that. He has an anklet and a camera and will go straight back to the State Pen if he does anything wrong."

"And who do you think has the key to the anklet and the ability to remove the watch with the camera?"

The dark-blue eyes of Bruce Wayne widened as the statement registered.

"Yep," Dick nodded, supplying the obvious answer, "Mr. Mercer. And who do you think will take the blame for sending one of the best teachers in the school off to jail? It won't be Batman, Bruce, I can tell you that."

"But it will be Batman's fault that he's arrested!" Bruce protested.

"True, but who started the process? Who told somebody about the bruises and other injuries? Again, it wasn't Batman."

"Nothing is going to happen, kiddo," the man stated confidently.

"How can you be sure?" the boy replied timidly.

Silence reigned, but only for a few moments.

"You just won't go to school. I'll get you a tutor. You're ahead in all the subjects anyway. Perfect solution."

Dick, still sitting on the ground, slowly stood up.

"I, uh, need to take care of this."

The nine-year-old motioned to his head, which was darker than normal because of the dried blood. Bruce nodded and Dick turned toward the bathroom. Suddenly the man was beside him, startling the boy.

"I'll help," Bruce stated.

"Um, no thanks," Dick replied. He walked into the bathroom and closed the door.

The man was surprised but quickly realized why his offer hadn't been accepted. His ward didn't trust him anymore, maybe never would again. Running a hand through his hair, Bruce turned away and strode out the door. Dick was going to need ice for that eye.

* * *

**Twenty minutes later:**

Dick still hadn't come down for dinner. Alfred had called him seven minutes ago and Bruce was concerned. The boy wouldn't try to run again. Not after the man had apologized and, he thought, allayed the child's fears of repercussions.

"Perhaps I should take a tray up, Master Bruce?"

"What? Oh, yes, put it on a tray. I'll take it up, though."

"As you wish, sir."

Alfred retrieved a tray from the kitchen and placed Dick's dinner on it. He picked it up and handed it to Bruce, who left the dining room and began climbing the stairs. Thirty seconds later he was at Dick's door, knocking hesitantly. There was no answer, so the man knocked a little louder.

"Come in."

The words were so quiet that Bruce almost didn't hear them. He opened the door and walked inside. Dick was sitting on the bed, his face pale and a towel pushed against the left side of his head. Several other towels, red instead of their usual white, surrounded him.

"I can't get it to stop," the boy murmured. "I don't know how it started bleeding again but no matter what I do it won't stop."

There was a tinge of panic in Dick's trembling voice. Bruce dropped the tray and was instantly by the child's side.

"Let me look, kiddo."

Wide, light-blue eyes stared at him and Bruce winced inside. They weren't full of trust, it looked more like betrayal and suspicion.

"Please?"

Slowly, Dick took the towel off his head. The blood was a stream, not just a dribble, and Bruce briefly thought about taking him to the hospital. But Alfred had blood in the Batcave; hopefully they had Dick's type.

"I'm…sleepy, Bruce. Isn't that, um, bad?"

"Why didn't you call me up, or answer Alfred when he called you for dinner? Either one of us could have helped you."

Dick shrugged as his light-blue eyes glazed over. Scooping his ward up, Bruce raced down the stairs and yelled for Alfred. The butler immediately came out of the kitchen and, when he saw the situation, hurried to the service elevator. Bruce joined him and they descended to the Batcave. It felt like much longer than the seventeen seconds it actually took and both men were relieved when the door slowly slid open.

"Blood type, sir?"

"I don't know but we have O negative, right?"

"Not very much, sir. It might be enough, though, since his body is so small."

The men efficiently set everything up and soon a thin stream of blood was gliding into Dick's body. Bruce pressed Bat-gauze against the wound and it stopped bleeding less than a minute later. Alfred immediately stitched the injury and now they had to wait.

The glazed, light-blue circles had disappeared completely on the way to the Batcave. Dick's pale face made the new bruise stand out prominently and even the older one seemed darker than it was.

But the boy's body was strong and two minutes later he opened his eyes. He tried to sit up but both men gently held him in place. Dick stared up at them in confusion and then a little bit of fear. Why was he so tired and why were they forcing him to remain still?

"Your head wound caused you to lose a lot of blood," Bruce stated when he saw the emotions. "We're in the Batcave and you're receiving a blood transfusion."

"Okay," Dick whispered before closing his eyes again.

Alfred went to the Bat-freezer and returned with a small pack of Bat-ice. Bruce had a Bat-towel and was cleaning the boy's head.

"My fault, Alfred."

"Yes, it is, Master Bruce," Alfred agreed as he placed the Bat-ice on Dick's swollen eye. "Also, I'm sure I have crossed many boundaries these last two days but they are lines that I deemed necessary to traverse."

With a small wave of his hand, Bruce dismissed the comment. His butler had no need to apologize and both men knew it.

"I'm going to change and take the tape from the Bat-camera to Commissioner Gordon. Tomorrow morning, Batman will pay a visit to Mr. Jerkins and Bruce Wayne will talk to him at teacher conference in the afternoon."

Bruce paused for a moment and then continued, "Take good care of him, Alfred."

"Just as I always do you, sir," the butler replied with a soft smile.


	6. Chapter 6

**Commissioner Gordon's office – later that evening:**

"Begorrah!" Chief O'Hara whispered as he watched Dick fall against the desk and saw the resulting splash of blood. "What kind of man, _a teacher no less_, does this to a littl' boy?"

"This is video from a Bat-camera?" Commissioner Gordon asked. He received a confirming nod from the blue-clad man on his left and sighed.

"And you're telling me that if I watch security tapes from the school, I will see Dick Grayson starting fights everywhere he goes?"

Another nod, this one accompanied by a quiet growl of irritation.

"Does Bruce Wayne know about this? Of course he does, how else would he know to ask you to place a Bat-camera in the classroom. He did ask you, right?"

"No," Batman replied stiffly. "I heard rumors and wanted the truth. Bat-cameras, as you well know, cannot be altered in any way. _This_ is the truth, Commissioner."

"Well, I suppose we'll have to arrest him."

"Let me talk to him first," Batman demanded.

"I don't know, Batman. You seem…extremely irritated. I don't want…"

"_Are you __**not**__ irritated_?!" the Caped Crusader roared.

"Of course I'm upset!" Commissioner Gordon exclaimed. "This man just assaulted a small child! But sometimes you…well, you…I'm not sure how to say it, Batman."

"Sometimes I'm a little rough with people," the hero growled, grudgingly acknowledging the implied accusation and internally admitting that, in this case, the unspoken allegation could easily turn into the truth.

"That's one way to put it, I guess."

"Fine. But I do know that Bruce Wayne has a teacher conference after school. Maybe you should give him a chance to find out the real story, to see if the teacher will lie to him. Dick Grayson, after all, is Mr. Wayne's ward."

"That's a good point, Batman. I'll go to the school tomorrow afternoon. Thank you for this information. May I keep the video?"

"Of course, Commissioner. It should be useful when you interrogate the criminal."

With that, Batman swept out the door, leaving the commissioner and the chief to wonder why the hero seemed so invested in this case.

"Probably because it involves a small child," the commissioner murmured, and Chief O'Hara agreed.

* * *

**The next day:**

"Wayne Manor."

Alfred answered the phone in the living room that had been ringing off and on since six o'clock in the morning. This time, however, someone answered back.

"This is Principal Mercer at Gotham Elementary. May I speak to Mr. Wayne, please?"

"If you will hold one moment, sir, I shall let him know you are on the phone."

The butler wanted to growl at the man, similar to what Batman would have done, but refrained. Instead, he went to the dining room, where Bruce and Dick were silently eating breakfast.

"Mr. Mercer is on the phone for you, Master Bruce."

Dick visibly flinched and Bruce frowned as he stood up. He had known this call was coming and was not looking forward to it.

"Principal Mercer, what can I do for you?" Bruce inquired as he picked up the phone. His voice was cheery but he was struggling to maintain the façade.

"I'm afraid this call is not a good one, Mr. Wayne. I need to speak to you about Dick Grayson. It's a very important matter, do you mind coming in this afternoon?"

"How fortuitous," Bruce replied. "I have a conference with Mr. Jerkins right after school. I can speak with you after that, if you like."

"Thank you, Mr. Wayne. I would say that I look forward to seeing you but, under the circumstances, it is difficult for me to do so. Good day."

Bruce slammed the phone down so hard that it tumbled off the table.

"Unfortunately for you," he grumbled, "I _do_ look forward to speaking with you."

* * *

**That afternoon:**

Bruce stalked into Dick's fourth-grade classroom. Mr. Jerkins was at his desk, going through some paperwork. Plastering a smile on his face, Bruce strode over and sat down in the chair that was obviously set up for parents. The teacher looked up, smiled and then shook his head in disappointment.

"Thank you for coming, Mr. Wayne."

"Bruce," the millionaire stated, like any parent would do when discussing their children with teachers.

"Okay, Bruce," Mr. Jerkins nodded. "And I'm Mark. It's nice to meet you, although I wish I had a better report for you."

"Oh?" Bruce said with the perfect combination of confusion and surprise in his voice.

"I really don't like having to say things like this but your son – sorry, your _ward_ – likes to fight. He taunts and teases and tries to get almost every boy – and even some of the girls – to fight him. He's a bully, Bruce."

"But I have received such good notes about him!" Bruce exclaimed, his tone outlined with astonishment. "I know he has trouble paying attention in class but I've never received any information like this!"

"Well, we've been working on it with him here but it has become too much for us to handle, I'm afraid. Just yesterday he tried to take on Johnny, one of our more fragile children who has a lot of friends. Dick often loses the fights because he's too small to defend himself very well. But that doesn't stop him from starting them."

"I did notice his swollen eye yesterday…"

"He told you it wasn't his fault, am I correct?" Mark interrupted.

Bruce sat perfectly still with his mouth hanging open, feigning shock.

"You see, he does that. He goes to see the principal but always blames someone else. We have evidence, would you like to see it?"

Batman had already seen it but, like any good parent, Bruce agreed to see whatever evidence the school had against his boy. Mark had one of the security tapes ready to play on the TV in his classroom. It was one of the more violent ones: Dick had "started" three fights in less than two hours.

"And you're just allowing this to happen?!" Bruce exclaimed, the anger in his voice completely real.

"Like I said, we've been working on it. Every time he says he'll do better and sometimes he does. But, the majority of the time, he can't control his anger, Bruce."

There was a long stretch of silence and Mark assumed that the millionaire was attempting to absorb the information. Bruce, however, was actually trying to keep himself from vaulting over the teacher's desk and beating him to a pulp.

"I know this must be a shock. Dick really is a good student. His homework is always completed correctly, his test scores are always high and he's always willing to comment in class. I believe that the trauma of losing his parents in such a horrible manner has caused him to finally lash out at others. He's angry about what happened, Bruce – as anyone would be – but we can't allow him to continue doing this."

"What are you saying?" Bruce nearly growled.

"Well, that's something you need to talk to Principal Mercer about. I understand that you have a meeting with him after our conference?"

Nodding his head, the millionaire ran a hand down his face and sighed.

"Anything else?" he asked wearily. The tone was directed at the behavior of the men, not the fact that Dick was allegedly picking fights, but the teacher didn't need to know that.

"No. His grades and classroom behavior are good, his outside behavior is reprehensible. If you could just sign here," Mr. Jerkins slid Dick's report card across his desk, "then we'll be done."

Bruce stared down at the piece of paper: PE behavior and participation – excellent; music behavior and participation – excellent; math – excels; social studies – excellent; language arts – excellent; science – excellent; social skills – unsatisfactory.

With a flourish of his pen, the millionaire signed the card, accepted his copy and stood up. He buttoned his suit jacket, nodded politely to the teacher and left the room. The hallway was empty and four classrooms later he angrily punched a wall with his left hand. Ignoring the small dribble of blood on his knuckles, Bruce strode around the corner to the principal's office.

Sam Mercer was sitting at his desk, flipping through a file, when Bruce walked in. The principal immediately stood up and extended his hand. The millionaire grabbed it firmly and shook it harder than necessary, but he was having trouble controlling his rage.

"I'll get right to the point, Mr. Wayne. I assume Mr. Jerkins already showed you the video?" He received a confirming nod and continued, "We have several more of those, Mr. Wayne. I feel that we are out of options at this point. I have decided to expel your ward; I can't continue to risk the safety of our other children."

"What I don't understand," Bruce snapped, "is why I'm finding out about this when you are ready to expel him. Don't you think I should have been informed earlier so we could have worked together on his behalf?"

"I'm sure Mark – Mr. Jerkins – explained that we've been working on it here at school."

"That doesn't answer my question, Mr. Mercer. Why would you wait to inform me until the last minute, when you feel that your _only_ option is to expel him?"

The principal had nothing to say. It was a relevant question but one he wasn't prepared to answer. Mark Jerkins was his best teacher, to everyone else anyway, and he didn't want his best teacher to be fired because of some small incidents with some nobody kid.

Suddenly, Commissioner Gordon strode into the office.

"Principal Mercer, I assume? Hello, Bruce."

The commissioner's tone was formal at first and then cordial when he acknowledged the presence of the millionaire.

"Is there a problem, Commissioner?" the principal asked politely.

"I have something I need you to see. Do you have a Mark Jerkins, who teaches fourth grade?"

"Yes. Again, is there a problem?"

"Please call him to your office immediately."

"Would you like me to leave, Jim?" Bruce asked quietly while the principal called the teacher.

"No, Bruce, this also involves you. And Dick Grayson."

"More fighting?" Bruce asked, sounding resigned.

"No, a very different story, which I'm sure you'll be interested in."

Mark Jerkins walked into the office and his eyes widened slightly at the sight of the commissioner and his chief of police.

"Please put this tape in your TV, Mr. Mercer. Before you play it, however, I need to explain something. This footage is from a Bat-camera, which is an impossible-to-alter piece of equipment. Batman brought it to me last night. Please play the tape, Principal."

The video began, the words were easily understandable and the actions were undeniably clear. Bruce jumped to his feet, his face turning red with fury, and almost lunged across the room at Mark Jerkins.

"He got that from _you_?!" Bruce thundered. He had, of course, already seen this video but he didn't have to feign the anger that burst out of him.

"You all lied?! He's completely innocent and you tried to blame him for fighting when really you _assaulted_ him?!"

Chief O'Hara had to physically restrain Bruce, who was struggling to not let Batman take both men down.

"As I said before," the commissioner stated, "Bat-camera footage is impossible to change, to alter in any way. Mark Jerkins, you are under arrest for assault and battery of a minor…"

"_HE'S NINE!_" Bruce exploded. "He's more than just a minor, Jim! _He's only nine!_"

"Chief," the commissioner demanded quietly. Nodding in understanding, Chief O'Hara practically shoved Bruce out of the room.

"Nothin' can be gained by yellin', Mr. Wayne," the chief stated. "We'll handle this; let us do our job."

Bruce nodded but allowed the fury to continue coursing through his body. Chief O'Hara saw the trembling muscles but wasn't surprised. If it had been his kid, the chief knew he would be reacting the same way.

"Go home, Mr. Wayne. You take care of the boy, we'll take care of this."

The answer was a curt nod and a growled, "See that you do."

Bruce turned around and left the school. He wanted to become Batman and take the guy down now but Chief O'Hara was right – he needed to take care of Dick. Batman, however, would be paying the man a visit sometime in the near future.

* * *

**Police Headquarters – later that evening:**

"May I speak with him, Commissioner?" Bruce Wayne asked, his tone polite but outlined with anger.

"I'm sorry, Bruce, but I don't think that's a good idea. Chief O'Hara is taking care of the situation, he's interrogating Jerkins right now, and sending you in would not be helpful."

"Can I at least watch and listen?"

Commissioner Gordon thought for a moment. Maybe it would help Bruce to hear the man's excuses and explanations. But he was a friend of Batman and, perhaps, the millionaire would feel the need to call on the services of the Caped Crusader.

"I won't do anything, Jim, if that's what you're worried about. I won't tell anybody what I hear in there."

"Anybody, Bruce?"

"_Anybody_."

With a quick nod, the commissioner led the millionaire to the viewing area of interrogation room C. He wanted Bruce to sit, but the man insisted on standing. Bruce knew he was going to pace and he didn't want to keep getting up and down.

Commissioner Gordon flipped the switch and the two men began listening to the conversation.

"I'm going to ask you again, Mark," Chief O'Hara stated. His voice had a slight edge to it; he had been talking to the man on and off for nearly three hours.

"How long has this been goin' on? There's no use in denying it since we have video evidence. How. Long?"

"The child practically begs for discipline," Mark Jerkins replied flippantly. "His guardian apparently doesn't do anything about it. Somebody has to give him boundaries! The hit was obviously a complete accident; I was throwing my arm around in frustration and he leaned in toward it. Why should I be punished? He's the one who got in the way."

Bruce was already pacing and fury was already coursing through his body. What kind of excuse was that?! Who throws _one_ arm out in frustration and what kind of kid would purposely try to get in the way? Not one like Dick Grayson, that was an absolute certainty.

"Come on, Mark. We both know it can't have been just this once."

Chief O'Hara brought some pictures out of the file folder in front of him. They were the ones Bruce had taken of his ward's battered body and the millionaire stopped pacing. How was the guy going to explain those away?

"I have no idea what those are from. Is that even Grayson? How can you tell from the pictures; there are no identifying features."

"Your principal was able to identify the boy when Batman presented these pictures."

"Well, maybe they're from Mercer then. Who knows, maybe it's even Wayne!"

Bruce almost punched the glass when he heard that. Commissioner Gordon grabbed the arm that the millionaire didn't even know was raised and roughly guided him to a chair.

"Sit down, Bruce. We all know you wouldn't do anything like that. Stay there or I'm kicking you out."

The words were steely and Bruce knew he had no choice. He nodded and folded his arms across his chest. Trying to glare his way through the window, Batman waited for the next idiotic excuse.

"I'm going to ignore that last comment," the chief declared, "because it's a ridiculous accusation and you could be sued for slander."

Mark shrugged the statement away and yawned.

"Are we done yet?"

"No, _Jerkins_, we aren't done. You're about to be booked."

Standing up, Chief O'Hara left the room and entered the viewing area.

"Bruce!" he said in surprise.

"I'm not going to sue, Chief. He's going to jail, what's the point?"

Nodding in agreement, the chief left to prepare the booking area. In the interrogation room, Mark Jerkins grinned at the mirror. He had heard the one word Chief O'Hara had just said and hoped that Grayson's guardian was still listening.

"Mark my words, the kid's a troublemaker. You'd be better off without him, Wayne. If you keep him, you might want to watch his back. But you should probably toss him out."

Fuming and irritated, Bruce stood up and almost marched through the door.

"Out!" Commissioner Gordon commanded and the millionaire, although he _really_ didn't want to, obeyed.

The commissioner joined him a few minutes later.

"That was a real threat, Jim. He has a brother with a criminal record."

"We're taking the brother back to jail. His janitorial assignment was work detail, not a condition of probation. You don't have to worry about him."

Bruce nodded, satisfied with the answer, and held out his hand. Commissioner Gordon reciprocated and the millionaire gave him a slight grin.

"Thank you for allowing me in, Jim. And for restraining me."

The commissioner chuckled quietly and replied, "At least it was you and not Batman. I don't think I would have been able to stop him."

Nodding again, Bruce walked down the hall toward the exit.

"Bruce!" Jim called and the millionaire turned around.

"Take good care of that boy. He's going to need help after everything that's happened."

Another nod was the response to that statement and then the millionaire was gone.


	7. Chapter 7

**The next day:**

"How are you feeling, kiddo?"

"Tired."

"Well, that's understandable after what you've been through these last few days."

"Can I go back to school?"

Dick's voice was hopeful but woven with anticipated disappointment.

"I don't know if that's a good idea," Bruce stated.

"But Mr. Jerkins is gone and you said the janitor went back to jail. Nobody else has ever done anything except that one kid after PE! I can handle that, Bruce, it's just a little competition!"

"I'll think about it," the man responded. "But today you're staying home."

The boy sighed in resignation. Thinking about it meant, most likely, a negative answer.

"And Batman is going to visit the school again. I need a description of the kid from PE."

"Oh, _come on_, Bruce! Let me at least deal with that! You and Batman have taken care of everything else."

"This is not up for discussion, Dick. Give me a description."

"Fine," the boy huffed, annoyed. "He's short and skinny and has floppy brown hair. His nose kind of resembles a pig's nose and his eyes are never happy. Maybe he's just not happy at home, Bruce. Maybe beating me in a race is the only good thing that happens! Come on, I'll just let him win all the time."

Dick had made a good point. Perhaps winning a race against the speedy Dick Grayson was the highlight of the kid's day. Or, perhaps he was just a mean kid and sore loser. Batman was going to find out, but he would observe the boy's home life first.

"I'll watch his home for two nights and then I'm going to end this," the man compromised. "If it's his regular life, I'll take care of that situation. If it's just because he loses to you, I'll have a talk with him."

Rolling his eyes, Dick stood up from his favorite chair in the living room.

"I have homework," he stated, somewhat rudely, and left.

"No, you don't," Bruce whispered after he was gone. With a slight grin and a shake of his head because of the boy's tone, the man went to his study. Batman was going to give the Bat-computer Dick's description, receive an address and go to the skinny kid's house tonight.

Dick, meanwhile, climbed the stairs and went to his room. He laid down on his bed and promptly burst into tears. It was over. Finally, he didn't have to be scared to go to school, or scared to participate in class. He could have fun learning things again and maybe even make some friends.

With his right hand, the boy carefully touched his swollen eye. Maybe Bruce was right; maybe he should stay home the rest of the week. Who would want to be friends with a kid who looked like he had just lost a fight? Dick sighed, turned on his right side and fell asleep.

That's how Bruce found him four hours later. The boy was on his left side now and the soft light from the bedside lamp was shining on his bruised but peaceful face. Bruce walked over to the bed, regretting the fact that he had to wake up his ward. But it was already past lunch time and he needed Dick to be able to go to sleep tonight.

The man noticed the dried tear tracks and wondered what had upset his boy. Was it the fact that Batman was going to take care of the situation with the other kid? Maybe he should let Dick deal with it, see if he could work it out himself. Perhaps he would give his ward a week and then, if nothing got better, step in and handle it.

"Hey, kiddo, it's time to wake up," Bruce whispered as he gently brushed the boy's dark hair away from the bruised face. Dick stirred but his eyes remained closed and he attempted to turn away from the touch.

"I know you're tired but you won't be able to sleep tonight if you don't get up now. Come on, Dick, open those friendly blue eyes."

And he did. The nine-year-old obediently raised his lids and stared at his guardian. Then he grinned, a big, genuine smile that lit up his entire face.

"I can have fun at school!" he exclaimed as he quickly sat up. "Thanks, Bruce!"

The boy's small arms were suddenly wrapped tightly around the man's torso and he was squeezing as if his life depended on it. His arms were extremely strong, Bruce realized, as they crushed his chest. They weren't doing any damage, he wouldn't even have a bruise, but the millionaire was surprised. Bruce had known that Dick was strong, but not _this_ strong. It was impressive.

"You're welcome, chum."

* * *

**Several days later:**

Batman had kept his promise. He had found the boy who was tormenting Dick and had watched his house for two nights and half a day. The kid's parents obviously loved him and his two siblings hardly ever fought with him. Of course, they were about nine or ten years older than him so, really, there was very little to fight over.

The boy's name was Dirk. He was the baby of the seemingly perfect family. And he was the only one who didn't have any of his parents' or siblings' facial features. Batman had studied everything about their looks, the way they moved and how they spoke. Dirk was the only one with skin a shade lighter and the slightest trace of a midwestern accent.

His mother was a dancer, his father a former Olympic track star, his older sister a rising basketball star and his older brother a gymnast just beginning to reach his peak. Dirk was the only one who had no athletic skills – that Batman had observed, anyway – and the only one who walked with all the grace of an elephant.

Then Batman had searched the Gotham City social services records, the ones that were closed to the public but open at midnight to a crime-fighter with the right tools. Right below the name Dick Grayson was the name Dirk Grimhall. And right below the name Bruce Wayne were the names Matt and Judy Wickers. They were his legal guardians and had been for almost two years.

Neither Bruce nor Batman had ever heard of the Wickers. It was strange, especially since they lived in an almost-mansion with a butler, two maids and a cook. People like that were usually in Bruce's social circle, or at least on Batman's radar as perfect ransom targets.

He had decided to go back for one more night and, upon reaching the boy's house, was pleased he had made that decision. Apparently, Dirk was having a bad night, although Batman had no idea why. The boy was in the process of yelling at his mother when the Caped Crusader arrived and began watching from the deep shadows of the dense trees surrounding the house.

"Why can't I have it?" Dirk shouted. "Dick Grayson has one, why can't I? Is he better than me just because he's from the stupid circus?"

"Dirk, honey," his mother tried to placate him, "there is no reason for me to think that someone from a circus is better than you. I don't know why the boy has a new backpack but his guardian must have a reason."

_Yes, I do._

Batman silently answered the woman's thought. Dick's backpack had been torn sometime during the month of abuse he had endured. Bruce hadn't known about that, either, until it had broken completely on his ward's first day back at school.

Dirk was yelling again, something about the style and color, and Batman rolled his eyes. The kid was this upset about something as small as a _backpack_?!

"Just because his parents died while doing something cool?!" Dirk demanded accusingly. "Just because mine were 'only' in a car accident, he deserves better than me?!"

Sighing, his mother replied, "It doesn't matter how a person's parents die, sweetie. What does matter is that you have a loving family, which is better than the single millionaire playboy that the poor Grayson boy has."

Batman inaudibly growled at those words. Dick was happy and safe, _that_ was what mattered. And now he knew the answer to the problem. Dirk was jealous that Dick's parents had died in a "cooler" way than his own. It was the stupidest reason that Batman had ever heard, and the hero had heard some idiotic explanations from people who were jealous enough that they turned into criminals.

Shaking his head, Batman turned to leave. But the next words stopped him in his tracks.

"He should have died with them," Dirk snarled at the woman. "Shouldn't someone in this 'loving' family take care of this problem for me?"

"I got your back, little guy."

The deep voice of a man joined the conversation and Batman turned back toward the house. Dirk's gymnast brother had entered the room and the Caped Crusader had no doubts about the young man's words.

He was short but muscular, as many gymnasts are, and he had just slung an arm around his little brother's shoulders.

"Michael James Wickers, you are not going to kill a _kid_!" the boys' mother exclaimed.

"Nah, just take care of the problem. It's obvious that Dirk is being bullied by this Grayson kid. So, I'll just rough him up a little, teach him a lesson."

"Like the one you taught those two men a year and a half ago?!"

"Hey, they _killed_ Dirk's parents! Batman wasn't trying to solve the case and neither were the police. Somebody had to take care of those drunken murderers!"

Batman had no idea what murderers they were talking about. Car accidents happened frequently in large cities like Gotham and those were things the police took care of. Not once in his entire career had the Caped Crusader been asked to help on a case involving a car accident.

"And anyway," Michael continued, "I didn't kill them."

"Because putting them in comas and on life support is so much better," the woman snapped sarcastically. "You're _lucky_ that Bruce Wayne donates money to Gotham Memorial, money that is used to keep people alive!"

"That's another thing!" Dirk suddenly shouted. "He's always bragging about how charitable his guardian is! Grayson throws it in my face every day!"

"We are charitable, also, Dirk!"

"Yeah, to the wrong charities!" the boy retorted.

"You do not get to decide which charities are more deserving than others!"

This was a full-blown fight now and Batman had just been given another answer to Dick's problem. But the hero highly doubted that his ward went around telling people about how charitable Bruce was, much less bragging about it. The boy paid attention to the things Bruce did, but he _was_ only nine and things that didn't concern him were quickly dismissed from his intelligent but young mind.

"Dirk, I got it, okay?" Michael stated, attempting to calm his younger brother. "I'll take care of it as soon as I get the chance."

"Do something to his leg," Dirk growled. "He's always showing off when we race after gym. Make it so he can't run as fast."

The mother sighed again, shook her head and walked out of the room.

Batman's eyes widened. She was _leaving_ when her boys where talking about hurting Dick Grayson?! And not just hurting, injuring him enough to slow him down for…the rest of his life or 'just' a while?

"Come on, Dirk, how am I supposed to do that? I can't just chop off his legs!"

"Break his kneecaps or something," the younger boy snarled. "Then he'll be in a wheelchair for a long time!"

"The only way that will happen is if he has to have surgery, kid," Michael said, irritation in his voice.

"So make it a…"

Dirk had lowered his voice and was now whispering in his brother's ear. Not even Batman could hear the words, even though he had shut down his other senses and was straining to catch every sound.

"…true…hospital…Wayne…open…night…idiot…"

Michael was slightly louder than his younger brother but still Batman only caught a few words. It was obvious that the man was going to attempt to put Dick in the hospital but nothing else made sense. What did "open night" mean?

Batman suddenly realized that the brothers had left the room. Turning around, he raced away toward the Batmobile. He wasn't going to tell Dick what he had just learned, but he also wasn't going to let his nine-year-old ward "take care of" the problem by letting Dirk Grimhall win the race every day. This was much more serious than that.


	8. Chapter 8

Note: Sorry for the short chapter.

* * *

**The next day – Gotham Elementary:**

Dick was in front again. His legs were strong, his whole body was strong, and he hated losing. But, he remembered saying that he would just let the other boy win. So, Dick pulled up slightly and allowed the kid to catch up. Dirk – Bruce had told him that was the boy's name – was gasping and probably wouldn't win if Dick didn't slow down even more.

Rolling his eyes and internally growling, Dick began jogging. Dirk laughed at him as he passed and Dick narrowed his eyes but kept his pace steady. Soon three other boys had whizzed by and Dick realized that if he let everyone beat him, Dirk would catch on to his plan.

Speeding up, Dick easily caught up to and passed the three, leaving only Dirk in front of him. He was closing the gap quickly so he pulled up again. Dirk made it to the gym first and Dick silently growled again.

"Slowpoke!" Dirk crowed in delight.

"Good race, nice finish," Dick stated, his voice polite but the words outlined with anger.

It was the nearly inaudible trace of anger that only Bruce, Batman and Alfred would be able to hear. Dick didn't want to do anything to make the other boy upset. Batman hadn't told him about Dirk's home life; the hero hadn't even brought the subject up. So, apparently, it was Dick's job to control the problem. And he could, as long as he let Dirk win.

"Why are you so slow now?" Dirk suddenly asked.

This was a question Dick had never contemplated having to answer. He didn't have an answer but his mind was as quick as his legs.

"I'm not getting very much sleep," he mumbled.

Turning around, he walked toward the drinking fountain on the other side of the gym. Dirk followed and, just as Dick bent down to take a drink, shoved the smaller boy aside.

"Winners first," he declared.

Shrugging, Dick walked away again. The less he said and did, he figured, the better. An upset Dirk was a slightly violent Dirk and Dick wanted to avoid that situation.

"Hey, my older brother's picking me up today," Dirk suddenly stated from behind Dick. "He's a gymnast, pretty good, going to Nationals in a couple of months. You want to meet him? Didn't you do some gymnastics stuff in the circus?"

Dick, surprise in his eyes, slowly turned around to face Dirk. So, a happy Dirk was a friendly Dirk – that was good to know. And Dick knew about Michael Wickers. Anyone who was even remotely associated with gymnastics knew about the twenty-year-old. Nationals, two months away, were the lead-up to Olympic Trials two weeks after that. And Dick knew that Michael Wickers was the favorite to win.

Now it was anticipation that filled Dick's eyes.

"Sure!" he exclaimed quietly. "I'm…that's really cool that he's your brother! He won't mind meeting me?"

That's how Dick always felt now. Everyone should be asked first because many people didn't want to meet a circus freak. Bruce had declared that Dick wasn't, and the boy trusted his guardian, but Mark Jerkins had shaken his confidence in himself. How many other people thought of him like that? It was always better to ask.

"No, why would he? It's not like you're some poor beggar kid."

"Okay, cool, thanks!"

Dick was elated for the rest of the school day. He was going to meet the guy who had won Worlds two years in a row! The Flying Graysons, while looking for new material, had seen Michael Wickers compete when the man was just a fourteen-year-old kid. Michael was so good, even back then, that Dick's parents had modified and incorporated some of his skills into one of their routines.

The youngest of the Flying Graysons had been only three at the time but his parents followed the career of the budding gymnast who had unknowingly provided them with fresh material. He had a new skill every year and a couple of times those new skills had given the Flying Graysons inspiration for their ever-increasingly-athletic routines.

And the meeting was better than Dick could ever had imagined. Somehow, Michael knew about Haly's Circus and the Flying Graysons! He, too, had received inspiration from them and seemed very pleased to meet Dick. They talked for nearly fifteen minutes before Dick realized that he had missed the only bus that went by Wayne Manor.

"Bruce is going to be so mad at me," he muttered softly.

"What?" Dirk asked.

"I…the bus is gone."

"Hey, no worries, kid. I'll give you a ride. Wayne Manor, right?"

With stars of ecstasy in his eyes, Dick asked, "Are you sure? I can call Alfred."

"Nah, I got you. Let's go."

"Okay, thanks!"

Michael opened the back door of his fancy, spruced-up car and bowed.

"Climb in, good sirs, if you please," he said formally with a slight grin.

Dirk waved Dick in so the young aerialist climbed in first. With a glance at his older brother, who was now smirking condescendingly, Dirk scrambled in the car and situated himself.

"This car is awesome," Dick declared softly.

"Well, my family has money, too," Dirk answered defensively.

Dick glanced sideways at the other boy, confused at the tone.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean anything…"

"I know, whatever," Dirk interrupted. "Home, James!" he shouted at the front seat with a grin.

"Yes, sir," Michael stated as he pulled away from the school.

Dick began looking out the window after ten minutes had passed. They should have been to Wayne Manor by now, especially since Michael obviously didn't care about speed limits or red lights.

"Um, I think you missed a turn," Dick said.

He was unfamiliar with this area and it was a bit unsettling.

"Scenic route," Dirk replied.

* * *

**Wayne Manor:**

A worried Alfred was on the phone, waiting for Bruce Wayne to pick up. Dick was almost an hour late. There had been no communication from the school – Alfred had called the front office after twenty minutes but had been forced to leave a voicemail.

"Alfred?"

"Master Dick is late, Master Bruce. The bus stopped by but he didn't get off and apparently the bus driver doesn't care because he left after waiting less than a minute!"

"_WHAT_?!" Bruce yelled in Alfred's ear. "Did you call the school?"

"Of course, sir, but there was no answer so I had to leave a message. I'm planning to call them again right after our conversation."

"Wickers," the younger man growled.

Alfred gasped in dismay. Bruce had told him the situation but neither of them had imagined that the young man would be bold enough to take the boy from _school_!

"But why would he go with him?" Bruce asked, talking to himself. "It's not like Dirk is his best friend or anything. What would prompt Dick to miss the bus?"

"I have no idea, Master Bruce," Alfred replied. "What are you going to do?"

"I'm coming home, Alfred. Be there in ten minutes."

"Sir, it's rush hour."

"And I have a helicopter," Bruce retorted, although there was no anger in his voice.

There was suddenly a dial tone in the butler's ear. He replaced the phone then sat down on the nearest chair. If Dick was with the Wickers boy….

* * *

**A small forest just outside Gotham City limits:**

Now Dick was worried. He knew they had left the city but he had no idea where they were. But then they exited the forest and now he knew their exact location.

There was a large circle of dirt with short weeds growing throughout. The weeds were longer outside the circle, although some of them were flattened. Dick could see, in his mind, the exact position of each bright booth. He could see trailers and cars and animal stalls and a big tent. They were at the circus grounds, where his life had been torn apart just three and a half months ago.

"Why are we hear?" he whispered, his voice full of deep sorrow.

Nobody answered and the door beside him was suddenly thrown open. Michael grabbed Dick's left arm and yanked him out of the car. The boy stumbled and was thrown to the ground. He started to get up, intending to run away from one of his heroes, but the gymnast had the advantage of already standing up.

Putting a heavy foot on the small chest, Michael snarled, "Leave my brother alone."

"Didn't…do…" Dick gasped as he grabbed the man's ankle and tried to pull off the weight of a strong gymnast.

The foot pushed down harder and they both heard the 'crack' of a bone. Dick couldn't breathe and his vision was becoming blurry. And then the weight was unexpectedly gone and Dirk's face appeared above him.

"You let me win," Dirk snarled. "I know you did because you blew by the other guys who passed you. Admit it."

Dick didn't want to admit anything but he also wasn't going to lie. He gave a small nod and watched Dirk's snarl turn into a smirk.

"You're a showoff and you brag too much."

Then the boy's face disappeared and Michael's looming body replaced it. He bent down and grabbed Dick's upper arms then pulled him up. Dick was expecting to land on his feet but was instead lifted in the air.

"Why are you bullying my brother?" the man growled, staring up at the terrified face of the nine-year-old.

Without waiting for an answer, he threw Dick across the weeds. The boy landed hard on his right side and couldn't breathe again. Michael was already there and this time he was holding something.

"You can't win if you can't run," he snarled.

Dick watched the tire iron go up above Michael's head.

"Please," he wheezed, horror filling the word. "I won't run anymore. Please don't."

"Too late."

The tire iron whistled as it flew toward Dick. Shutting his eyes that were already leaking tears, the boy waited for the pain to begin. The metal hit his left kneecap and Dick screamed as the bone shattered. Michael strode to the other side of the boy's body while Dirk rolled him onto his left side.

Dick already knew what was coming.

"Please," he whispered, agony filling the word this time. "Please, no," he whimpered as Michael raised the tire iron again. "Please," he tried one more time.

But both Michael and Dirk just laughed and then Michael shrugged.

"Maybe this will teach you not to bully people," he stated.

The tire iron whistled through the air again, shattering his right kneecap upon impact. Dick's scream was silent this time, the pain overwhelming his vocal chords.

And then they were gone. Dick lay on the dirt, panting, sobbing in pain. Nobody knew where he was and the sun was on the western horizon. He should have known – Dirk had never been even remotely friendly. But meeting Michael had been irresistible. This was all his fault again; _everything_ was always Dick's fault.

"Bruce," he groaned softly, and then, "Batman."


	9. Chapter 9

**The Batcave:**

"Why doesn't he have a tracker?!" Batman yelled at himself.

This oversight was unacceptable. Dick had been through so much at school and Batman had never even given him a communicator watch or a tracker. His ward could be lying somewhere _dying_, and Batman had no clues to help him find the boy's location!

The only idea he had was to go pay a visit to the Wickers. At least one of the boys was probably the last one to see Dick and Batman was going to force some answers out of that person. He was just climbing into the Batmobile when Alfred spoke.

"Master Batman!" he nearly shouted. "A Bat-camera caught Michael Wickers' car leaving the western side of the city about an hour ago!"

"Well, it's a starting point," the Caped Crusader grumbled. "Keep me updated!" he yelled as the Batmobile roared down the tunnel.

West was in the opposite direction of the Wickers' mansion but Batman was sure that if they had taken Dick west, they certainly wouldn't be bringing him back to their house.

_Beep. Beep._

The hero flipped the switch that opened the Batmobile's Bat-communicator.

"His car just re-entered the city, sir."

"I'm going to assume that they left him somewhere. The way they were talking about him the other night…"

"I agree, Master Batman," the butler quickly interrupted. "I'll keep an eye on the Bat-cameras as well as the city cameras."

"I'm keeping the line open, Alfred. Tell me everything you see."

"Right now everything is quiet, sir. It is, after all, dinner time."

There was a long pause. Batman, already impatient, was becoming irritated.

"The circus grounds," Alfred suddenly murmured. "There's something moving, sir, right in the middle of the circus grounds."

"It's probably just a wild animal," Batman grumbled.

"Do wild animals lift up their torsos and then weakly drop them to the ground, sir?" Alfred asked, the words clipped with something akin to anger.

"They do if they're injured."

"Exactly, Master Batman."

"I'll check it out," the hero growled, annoyed that he was probably going all the way to the circus grounds in order to see a hurt coyote, or rabbit, or some other inconsequential being.

* * *

**The circus grounds:**

"Please, Batman," Dick whispered. "I'm sorry, please…"

His plea disappeared into a wheezing gasp of anguish. There was no way for Batman to know where he was. Did Bruce even know he was missing? Maybe he thought Dick was staying after school. Dick didn't even know what time it was. He thought it was getting dark but that could just be the black spots dancing across his vision making him _think_ it was almost nightfall.

Dick decided he would have to try to get out of this himself. All he had to do was drag himself across the circus grounds, through the forest, into the city and find the nearest store or payphone. He could do that, he was strong, he could rescue himself like Batman.

With that heroic thought in mind, Dick put his hands on the ground and pushed his torso up. The fragments of bone in his knees ground into each other and scraped across his ligaments, tearing some of them apart. It was overwhelming, and the boy dropped onto his stomach, panting in pain. Now his hips were twisted, exacerbating the heavy ache in his shattered knees.

"Okay," he gasped, "now what?"

There was a familiar roar – Dick had only heard it a few times but it was very distinctive. It sounded slightly softer than it did in the enclosed Batcave but the boy knew it was the Batmobile. Somehow, and right now he didn't really care how, Batman had found him.

The sound stopped and Dick heard the 'slam' of a door. Next, boots crunching over dried weeds and gravel. Then, the quiet swish of a hero's cape. A bright beam lit up the sky and then swirled its way around the area.

The light suddenly stopped, right on his body, and a surprised voice shouted, "_DICK?!_"

* * *

Batman arrived at the circus grounds and climbed out of the Batmobile. This was going to be a waste of precious time but it would satisfy Alfred. He strode across crunchy gravel and dying weeds as he took out his Bat-flashlight. Stopping, he flipped the switch to on and turned in a slow circle, sweeping the area with both the beam and his eyes.

There was the lump that Alfred had seen, right in the middle of the circle where the big tent had been situated. Batman held the light steady on the lump and continued walking. Two pale arms, a head of dark hair and a pain-filled expression.

"_DICK?!_" Batman yelled in astonishment.

The hero raced across the rest of the ground dividing him from his ward. Dick was lying on his stomach but only his left hip was on the ground. He was twisted and, from the soft moans Batman could hear, extremely injured.

"Dick," the Caped Crusader whispered as he crouched down beside him.

Weary, light-blue eyes stared up at him. Tears were sliding down his pale cheeks and he was alternating panting and gasping.

"What happened, chum?"

"Dirk," the boy mumbled. "I'm sorry…"

He trailed off as pain rippled through his knees.

"Later," Batman commanded softly. "What hurts?"

"Tire…iron…knees."

There was a wheeze between each word of the incomplete sentence. Batman understood exactly what his ward meant. Turning the Bat-flashlight toward the boy's knees, the Caped Crusader stared in shock at a pair of mangled kneecaps. The older brother had done exactly what he had said: shattered Dick's kneecaps. With a tire iron!

"Sorry," the nine-year-old mumbled again. "Miss bus. My fault."

"No, Dick, this isn't your fault," Batman replied gently, moving his eyes back to his ward's face.

Dick was going into shock. His eyes had glazed over, he was trembling, and he was muttering something about trials and tricks and a hero.

Batman unclipped his cape and laid it on the ground. Then he pulled out his can of Bat-sleep and sprayed it in the boy's face. Dick's expression immediately relaxed as his eyes slipped closed. The Caped Crusader carefully untwisted the boy and wrapped his cape around the small body.

Gently picking up the small cocoon, Batman turned around and headed back to the Batmobile. Those knees were going to require surgery, he could tell even though he had only seen them with the beam of a Bat-flashlight.

"A tire iron," he growled. "What kind of person does this to a _child_?"

There was one thing Batman knew for sure: the older Wickers boy wasn't going to enjoy his impending visit from the Caped Crusader.

* * *

**Eight hours later:**

Bruce Wayne was pacing. Batman had reluctantly taken Dick to the hospital before finding a place to change. It wouldn't look good if the boy, with completely shattered kneecaps, was brought in by his guardian. People would automatically jump to the conclusion that he had done it and Susan Jameson would immediately be all over him. Even after almost four months, she was still trying to take Dick away.

Alfred had to answer the phone at Wayne Manor when the hospital called to talk to his guardian. Batman had seen to it that Dick was safely in a bed in the ER before making a rather lame excuse to leave. He had sprinted to the Batmobile and picked up the Batphone extension. The butler was connecting the Batphone in the Batcave with the Manor's phone and anxiously waiting for Batman to become Bruce, over the phone, anyway.

The call had taken exactly eighty-seven seconds. Bruce had quickly agreed to rush to the hospital after impatiently listening to the long-winded ER doctor's explanation. Alfred, as soon as the call was over, had hung up without saying a word. He had then grabbed a pair of Bruce Wayne's clothes and practically run to the garage. Within ten minutes, the long limo was parked near the Batmobile and Batman was in the back, changing. They sent the Batmobile home remotely and hurried to the hospital.

The doctor had been surprised at the speed but was even more surprised when Bruce signed everything without even reading it. The millionaire was a businessman and the doctor assumed he would go over the paperwork with a fine-toothed comb, or at least glance at _some_ of the words.

But Bruce knew the quicker Dick got into the operating room, the better it would be for his damaged knees. So now here he was, eight hours after Batman had dropped Dick off at the hospital, pacing while waiting for his ward to wake up.

The doctor had told him that the surgery had gone well, on both knees. It had been difficult at first. Some dirt had pushed its way into the space where a bone had torn through the skin on his left knee. But the doctors had been able to stave off the threatening infection after a tense forty-five minutes. Once that had been taken care of, the rest was relatively easy. It had taken a long time; Bruce felt like he had been here for days instead of hours.

Both of Dick's legs would be in casts for six weeks and then an additional three months of physical therapy. But, he was going to be fine. Physically, at least.

"He's awake, Mr. Wayne."

The doctor's deep voice startled Bruce out of his thoughts. He followed the man – who, to Bruce, was traveling at the rate of a snail – down a long hall to Dick's room. With a wave of his hand, the doctor invited Bruce in.

"He's still sleepy and the morphine will wear off soon," the man whispered. "Here's the call button," he said quietly, pointing to a red button on a rail of the bed. "Call the nurse if he needs anything."

Bruce nodded then stood completely still, staring at the pale boy whose eyes were just beginning to open.

Noticing the millionaire's apprehensive expression, the doctor patted Bruce on the shoulder and stated, "He did well, Mr. Wayne. His body is strong. It will take time, but he will be fine."

Bruce nodded again but the doctor was already gone. The man silently walked to the side of the boy's bed. Dick's eyes, completely open now, were bloodshot and exhausted. Pain was etched on his young features.

"Hey, chum," Bruce said softly. "How are you feeling?"

"T'rd," Dick mumbled.

"You've had a rough night, kiddo, but the doctors say you did really well."

"Wha' 'pen?"

"Well," Bruce replied as he pulled a chair over and sat down, "what do you remember?"

There was a long pause as Dick searched his brain for any kind of memory.

"Circ's," he said hesitantly, "Dirk, knees…KNEES!"

The last word was almost shouted as Dick tried to sit up. Bruce jumped to his feet and put his hands on his ward's shoulders. He gently pushed the boy back down then brushed the dark hair away from the light-blue eyes.

"Whoa, kiddo, not so fast. You had surgery, the doctors fixed them, you're going to be okay," he softly assured the nine-year-old. "It will take time, but you will be fine," he stated, echoing the doctor's parting words.

Tears were streaming down Dick's cheeks. Bruce wasn't sure if it was pain or fear or something else altogether.

"Do you want me to call the nurse, kiddo?"

Shaking his head, Dick whispered, "I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault, chum. There was no way you could have prevented this."

"Let him give me a ride," the boy sighed. "Stupid."

"Who is 'him'?"

The blue eyes lit up then dimmed. One of Dick's heroes had let him down.

"Michael, the gymnast. We…"

Dick stopped, squeezed his eyes shut and tried his best to keep from breaking down. Bruce knew what he was doing, so he sat down again and patiently waited.

"So excited," Dick stated, sorrow outlining the words. "We…Mom and Dad…we watched him all the time. I wanted to be like him, wanted to have his skills."

"You are so much better than him, Dick," Bruce responded. "Let's not talk about that right now. I think we should ask the nurse for some pain medication."

"No," Dick nearly growled.

"You're obviously in pain, chum."

"I can handle it."

The nine-year-old's jaw was clenched so tightly that Bruce just barely understood the words. Shaking his head, the man reached for the call button. A small hand smacked Bruce's hand away.

"Let me do this," the boy ground out.

"Dick, there's no reason for you to be in pain."

"I'm. Fine."

The boy shut down. Anger filled his eyes and he clenched his hands into fists. He could handle the pain, he had been handling pain for over a month. This might be a little harder to deal with but he could do it.

Bruce recognized the look so he let the subject drop. Dick would tell him if it got too bad. He hoped, anyway. Of course, Dick hadn't told him about a month's worth of bruises and a fractured rib so…

"I'll tell you," Dick suddenly declared softly.

"Tell me what?"

"If it's too much. I'll let you know if I can't handle it."

Dick had read him like a book. Batman could control his expression, and that usually applied to Bruce, as well. But, apparently, not with Dick.

"You're glaring at me. That only happens when you're worried."

"I…"

"It's okay, Bruce. I know I can tell you things. But sometimes pain is good for a person. It helps us be grateful for when we don't have pain."

That left the man speechless. Sometimes Dick would come up with deep thoughts out of the blue, and this was one of those times.

"I'm sleepy. Can I go back to sleep?"

"Yes, chum, go to sleep."

"Are you…I, mean if Bat…you don't have to…"

"I'm staying, Dick. I'll be here while you sleep and I'll be here when you wake up."

With a soft sigh, the boy whispered, "Thanks."


	10. Chapter 10

Note: The previous chapter 10 is now chapter 11. A reader gave me an idea and I went with it. :)

* * *

**Two days later:**

Batman had thought about Bat-climbing his way into Michael Wickers' bedroom and beating the crap out of him. Then he had thought about going to the gym where the gymnast trained and beating him to a pulp there. After that, he had briefly pondered just grabbing the boy and taking him to the circus grounds, where he would promptly shatter his kneecaps and leave him lying in the dirt and panting in pain.

But, he also wanted Michael to go to jail. And the easiest way to do that was to get him to admit that he was guilty. So, Batman had decided to go over to the Wickers' house during the day. He was going to confront the young man and force out a confession. Michael's mother had heard her sons talking about hurting Dick; he would work on her, too. She seemed like she would be easier to bend.

And then there was Dirk. He was just a kid – ten years old, in fact – and had started the whole mess. However, a ten-year-old can't go to jail and he hadn't really done anything horrible enough to send him to the detention center. Kids were, unfortunately, sometimes bullied at school and that's what Dirk had done to Dick. 'Just' bullied him.

So now here he was, standing at the front door of Wickers Hall and waiting for someone to answer the ring of the doorbell.

"Mr. Wayne, what a lovely surprise!" Mrs. Wickers gushed as she opened the door. "Would you like to come in?"

"Good afternoon, Mrs. Wickers," Bruce replied cordially but with just the right amount of irritation lacing his voice.

"Oh, dear, Mr. Wayne, it's Judith, please."

"Okay, Judith, thank you," Bruce responded as he stepped over the threshold, declining to offer her the same token of respect.

"Won't you come into the sitting room? Marcus and I were just about to have afternoon refreshments. Would you like lemonade?" she asked as she led him across the hall and into the brightly lit sitting room.

"No, thank you, I'm not here on a social call."

"Oh, well, how can I help you then? Please, have a seat."

Bruce nodded and sat down then said, "May I speak with both you and your husband?"

"Of course, Mr. Wayne, I'll be just a moment."

She went into the hall and called, "Marcus, dear, Bruce Wayne is here to see us."

A deep voice answered but Bruce didn't catch the words.

"No, Marcus, I don't know. Will you just come in here?!"

Her voice was rather demanding now, and Bruce thought that maybe she would be tougher to bend than Batman had originally thought.

Five seconds later, Judith returned. She had her hand wrapped around her husband's arm and was basically pulling him into the room. Marcus seemed very reluctant but plastered a smile on his face when Bruce stood up to greet him.

"Bruce," he nodded, reaching his hand out.

"Marcus," the millionaire nearly growled, firmly grasping the man's hand for a brief moment.

"What can we do for you, Bruce?"

"I don't know if you're aware of this, Marcus, but my ward, Dick Grayson, is in the hospital," Bruce stated as they all sat down.

"Oh, I didn't know that, is he okay?"

"He will be, but it will take a while."

"What happened to the poor dear?" Judith questioned anxiously. "Dirk is always talking about him; they're such good friends."

She gave a nervous smile and began twisting her hands in her lap. Bruce nearly rolled his eyes and, internally, Batman smirked. Perhaps she _would_ be easy to bend. But first he wanted to talk to Michael. In front of the boy's parents. And, to his luck, the gymnast walked in at that very moment.

"Oh, sorry, I didn't know you had a guest. Mom, can I speak to you for a minute? Sorry for the interruption, Mr. Wayne."

"For heaven's sake, Michael, can't it wait?" Judith sighed, sounding slightly annoyed. "Mr. Wayne is here to talk to us and his time is very valuable."

"Actually," Bruce jumped in, "I was hoping I could talk to Michael, as well."

"Is something wrong, Mr. Wayne?" Michael asked uneasily.

"Michael, come sit down, don't be rude to our guest."

Bruce suddenly realized he was glaring at the boy. He relaxed his face but unconsciously clenched the arms of the chair on which he was sitting. Michael sat down by his mother and instantly became very interested in the sea-green carpet.

"Michael, do you know anything about what happened to my ward a few days ago?"

"Wait just a minute, Bruce!" Marcus yelled as he jumped to his feet. "Are you saying _my_ boy had something to do with the fact that _your_ boy is in the hospital?!"

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to imply that," Bruce responded calmly.

With a quick nod, Marcus took a deep breath and sat back down.

"I gave him a ride home," Michael stated, glancing from his mother to Bruce. "I don't know what happened after that. Dirk told me he hasn't seen him since that day. Why is he in the hospital?"

Ignoring the question, Bruce continued, "Did you drop him off somewhere? My butler, Alfred, never mentioned seeing a car in the driveway."

"Oh, um, he…" Michael stalled and then recovered, "…he asked to be let off by the gate. He said he wanted to have some time alone because he was missing his parents."

"Hmmmm," Bruce murmured. "So you know nothing about the circus grounds?"

"Why would he know anything about the circus grounds, _Mr._ Wayne?" Judith demanded. "I really don't like your tone."

He ignored her and stated, "Do you happen to have a tire iron in your car, Michael?"

All his attention was focused on the gymnast, his body language and the minute changes happening in his expression.

"You're not implying anymore, Bruce," Marcus growled. "This sounds more like an accusation."

"Well, that's what happens when a young boy identifies someone as his attacker."

"Michael?!" Judith gasped, staring at her son in disbelief.

Marcus, however, burst out laughing.

"You really think Michael would jeopardize his chance at going to the Olympics by _attacking_ someone? You're an intelligent man, Bruce. I would like to know why your ward is pointing his finger at my son."

"He's jealous, probably."

Dirk suddenly entered the room. Michael glanced at his younger brother and slowly shook his head. Bruce, of course, noticed.

"I invited him to meet Michael and you should have seen his face. Dick, apparently, worships my brother and his abilities. I tried to let him know when the bus was leaving but he totally ignored me. Michael was practically forced to give him a ride after that. And Dick couldn't stop talking about how he wished he was as good as Michael and how his parents were so inspired by Michael's talent.

When we talked about Nationals and the Olympics, Dick begged us to find a way to allow him to go. We said it was impossible and he got upset. He growled something about people letting him down and things never going his way. I've never seen him like that: his eyes full of anger and his fists clenched and his body shaking with fury or something."

The boy was a good liar, Bruce had to acknowledge that. But, he knew Dick better than anyone else in this room and he had never seen anger in his ward's eyes. Disappointment, yes. Frustration, misery, sorrow, confusion and fear, yes. But never true anger.

"Anyway, we dropped him off and he didn't even say goodbye or 'thanks for the ride' or anything! He just slammed the car door and left!"

"And where did you drop him off, Dirk?" Bruce inquired, his voice still calm but ready to burst into fury.

"At the…"

"Gate, Mr. Wayne, like I told you," Michael swiftly interrupted.

"Uh, yeah, the gate."

"So, the gate was open, then?" Bruce asked nonchalantly.

"Um, he said he could climb over; that you wouldn't mind," Dirk answered nervously.

"Was it the front gate, the back gate or the gate leading to the garage?"

Michael saw the trap but didn't know how to get around it. He had never been to Wayne Manor. Why would someone have a gate leading to the garage?!

"Oh, you had some new gates installed, Bruce?" Marcus asked sharply. "Last time I was there you only had the one."

"Are you saying my boys are _lying_?!" Judith demanded shrilly. "Why, I never…here you are, a _guest_ in our house, accusing my boys of making trouble!"

Marcus suddenly stood up.

"I think you should leave, Bruce," he said quietly, his tone full of fury. "Before something happens to either of us."

"Are you _threatening_ me, Marcus?" Bruce replied, his voice composed even as rage flashed through his deep-blue eyes.

The silence was heavy and awkward. Bruce waited, albeit impatiently, for someone to break. He noticed Dirk slowly backing away but chose to let the boy go. Marcus had his jaw clenched, Judith was fretfully wringing her hands and Michael was apparently contemplating the meaning of the cracks in the fireplace.

"What did he say I did?" Michael suddenly demanded, turning his now-angry gaze to Bruce.

"That you beat him with a tire iron," Bruce replied evenly.

Judith gasped in dismay and Marcus widened his eyes in disbelief.

"You admitted giving him a ride, but you lied about everything else, as did your brother," Bruce continued. "Dick would have no reason to climb over the gate because it is always open. And he's not the jealous type but Dirk wouldn't know that because they aren't friends, _Judith_."

The sharp emphasis on her name startled Judith and tears began leaking out of her eyes.

"What have you done, Michael?" she whispered as she dropped her face into her hands.

"Mom, I didn't do anything," Michael assured her, keeping his eyes on Bruce. "Whatever the kid said, he's lying."

"Then you won't mind showing me your tire iron," Bruce commented as he stood up. "I'm sure you keep one in your car for emergencies, as everyone does."

"Are you going to look for blood or something, Mr. Wayne?" Michael snapped.

"Or something," Bruce confirmed, struggling to remain calm even as Batman demanded that he take the boy down. "You see, the dirt at the circus grounds has a unique characteristic. So unique, in fact, that it can be identified without the police even needing to have it tested at a lab."

"Bruce, do you have a search warrant? Or a policeman here with you with a search warrant?" Marcus demanded. "Because if you don't, you are now trespassing and I suggest you leave before _I_ call the police."

"I've never even been to the circus grounds!" Michael shouted. "Your kid is a brat who is always bullying my little brother but that doesn't mean I did anything to him!"

Batman nearly tackled the boy when he said that. Bruce took a step forward, his blood boiling with rage, but somehow forced himself to stop. He still didn't have a concrete confession, which he needed so that it wouldn't be Dick's word against the matching stories of the Wickers brothers.

"I see," Bruce stated, allowing an obviously incredulous tone to envelope the words.

The faces of both Marcus and Michael were now red with fury. Marcus raised a shaking hand and pointed to the front door. His other hand was clenched in a fist and Bruce could tell it was ready to fly at him.

"Be careful, Marcus," he commanded darkly. "You don't want assault on your record as well. It's bad enough that your talented gymnast will be going to jail. I doubt you'll be going to the Olympics, or even Nationals, anytime in the future," Bruce remarked dangerously as his gaze – nearing the level of a Bat-glare – shifted to Michael.

"You won't find anything on my tire iron because I never used it on your kid!" the gymnast shouted, refusing to back down. "Besides, knees don't bleed unless skin is torn off!"

"Who said anything about knees?" Bruce prodded brusquely, a glint of satisfaction sprinting through his eyes.

"You did, Mr. Wayne!" Judith declared, standing up and moving protectively in front of her older son.

"No," Bruce declared harshly, "I said nothing about any body parts. In case you don't remember, I said, 'beat him with a tire iron.' There is no way for your boy to know that Dick's knees were injured unless he was the one who did it."

"No, you definitely said knees," Judith declared defiantly. "Now get out of our house before I call the police!"

"They're already here, Mrs. Wickers."

"They won't believe you. It's your word against the three of us," Marcus growled.

"Unless," Bruce smiled grimly, "I happen to be wearing a wire."

He unbuttoned his suit jacket, reached inside the right edge and pulled out a tiny microphone attached to a thin, black cable.

"Oh, look, I am!" he stated, satisfaction evident in the proclamation.

Just then Commissioner Gordon and Chief O'Hara walked in the front door.

"Michael Wickers, you're under arrest for assault and battery of a minor."

"He's _nine_, Commissioner," Bruce muttered under his breath. "He's more than just a minor," he stated softly, repeating the words he had yelled in the principal's office only a week and a half ago.

Swiftly removing the wire, he handed it to Chief O'Hara. Placing a hand on the man's shoulder, Bruce whispered, "Don't worry, I'm kicking myself out this time."

The chief chuckled awkwardly and watched the millionaire stride away.

"Sure and he's protective of that boy, even though the youngster is just his ward," the man murmured approvingly.

"Commissioner, please!" Marcus nearly begged. "He's Olympic bound!"

"That doesn't exempt him from prison, Mr. Wickers."

"Prison!" Judith cried and burst into tears.

"I can't…he wasn't supposed…I didn't…" Michael stuttered, attempting to find a way out of the situation.

"Enough, Michael," Marcus snapped. "Accept the consequences like a man. You practically confessed already. I didn't know I had an _idiot_ for a son."

"This is the stupidest thing you've done since you beat up those murd…" Judith trailed off.

"Begorrah!" Chief O'Hara exclaimed in disbelief. "Apparently, we've been lookin' for you for a while, then. Guess we're arrestin' you for attempted murder, too."

Snapping a pair of handcuffs around Michael's wrists, the chief led him out the door and shoved him into the back of the police cruiser. Dirk, standing just outside the door, watched with wide eyes.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, turning and fleeing up the stairs to his room.

* * *

**That night – Police Headquarters holding cell:**

"Uh, Batman, sir, I can't allow you to go in there. Commissioner Gordon specifically mentioned your name."

Batman turned on the police officer, glaring darkly.

"Tell the commissioner that I don't care what he thinks right now. I'm talking to the man, whether you _let_ me in or not."

Not wanting the cell door to be torn off its hinges, the officer reluctantly used his key on the lock.

"Five minutes, Batman," he stammered nervously. "I don't want to lose my job."

"Close the door and lock it," the hero demanded coldly. "We need to talk alone. Go get a snack or a drink or something."

The officer did as he was told. Michael Wickers backed up against the far wall, fear in his eyes. Batman strode toward him, hands clenched and entire body tense with fury. Placing his hands on the wall on either side of the criminal, Batman leaned down until his face was only three inches from that of the boy

"You are _lucky_," he growled, "that you are here instead of at the State Pen right now."

Michael was trembling, his mouth opening and closing like a fish as he tried to think of something to say.

"When rumors start there, they spread like wildfire. Nobody cares whether or not they are true. And, with the exception of a few villains, nobody likes it when crimes are committed against _children_. You should be scared, Wickers. No, not just scared, _terrified_. Because I know that, somehow, a rumor will begin before you even arrive.

Even if they can't prove the attempted murder, assault and battery of a minor is at least eighteen months. For you, however, it will probably be longer, since both Bruce Wayne and Dick Grayson will be testifying against you. The boy has an _excellent_ memory, especially when something traumatic happens to him.

Just so you are aware of your continued luck, I wanted to take you down in a – shall we say – _harsher_ manner, but Bruce Wayne convinced me to allow you to talk yourself into a corner. Luck doesn't last for long, Wickers. We will be having a very different conversation in the near future, as soon as you are settled in your new quarters at the State Pen. I respect Commissioner Gordon too much to do it here."

Whirling around, the Caped Crusader hit the metal bars of the door. The policeman had just returned from his 'errand'. He quickly unlocked the door and checked on the prisoner. Michael was gasping and his trembling arms were wrapped around his torso. But the officer knew what a 'conversation' with Batman looked like; the boy was fine.

_For now._

That was the officer's thought as he locked the cell door and watched the Caped Crusader stride away.


	11. Chapter 11

Note: This used to be chapter 10 so there's nothing new in here. :)

* * *

**Five months (and many physical therapy appointments) later:**

"Richard John Grayson!"

Dick looked down at his guardian sheepishly.

"We talked about this chandelier the last time you got stuck up there! I distinctly remember saying it was off limits!"

"Master Dick, not again!"

"It's just…it swings!" Dick exclaimed. "I miss swinging."

He sighed and his expression, so full of guilty excitement three seconds ago, fell into sorrow.

"Do you want a trapeze in the gym?" Bruce asked gently.

The sadness was replaced by astonishment.

"You would do that for me?!"

"Of course, chum, if that's what you want."

"That would be amaaaaaaazing!"

Dick opened his arms wide and tipped himself backward. Both men jumped into action – Bruce readying himself to catch the boy and Alfred grabbing a pillow to cushion whomever landed first.

"MASTER DICK!"

"_DICK_!"

The young aerialist hooked his knees around one of the arms of the chandelier and began swinging. Two surprised faces stared up at him; last time he had tried that he had fallen. Arching his back, Dick unhooked his knees and grabbed a different arm with his hands. He slowed his swing and waited until he was directly over Bruce.

"Did I scare you?" he grinned impishly as he glided into the man's open arms.

"How are your knees?" Bruce asked, his eyes narrowed in anger but twinkling with a tinge of amusement.

Dick shrugged out of Bruce's grip and landed lightly on his feet. He jumped up and down a few times, bringing his knees up to his chest while in the air.

"Great!" he exclaimed as he jumped into a backflip.

"Are you ever going to tell me where they went?" the nine-year-old asked before jumping into another backflip.

"I don't know _where_ they went, Dick. All I know is that they decided to move to a place where Michael could have better training. After he gets out of prison, of course."

"With a little persuasion from Bruce Wayne or from Batman? And, uh, how long?"

"You could say it was a little of both. Two years, kiddo, and you have no reason to worry about him anymore. I doubt you're ever going to hear about him again. Gymnasts who haven't fully trained for two years because they are in prison rarely go on to become any kind of star. In fact, I've never heard of one who has."

"I'm never going to be able to pay you back," Dick stated tentatively.

He was suddenly staring at the ground and shifting his weight from side to side. The abrupt change of subject startled Bruce, as did the subject itself.

"Nobody has ever said anything about that, chum. Why would you think that?"

"Well, it's just that you always take care of everything – Mr. Jerkins, Dirk and his family, getting me a trapeze, plus everything you've done before this. I can't…I've been thinking and thinking but I haven't found a way. You didn't have to do any of this, you could have just let me go with the lady at the circus. I'm just an orphan, Bruce, and I don't deserve any of this."

Both Bruce and Alfred were shocked. They had known that Dick was struggling to regain some of his confidence after everything Mark Jerkins had pounded into his head, but they had also thought he was past this kind of thinking.

Bruce had no idea what to say. Alfred was staring at him, waiting for him to reassure the child. But the younger man stayed silent and the butler sighed.

"Master Dick, that is what a good guardian does – he takes care of things. There is no reason for you to have to pay him back for anything."

"Would you have felt like you had to pay back your parents?" Bruce suddenly blurted.

"Uh, no, of course not," Dick whispered. "But they _expected_ me. I was just kind of thrown at you and it was only supposed to be for a night or two."

"You weren't thrown at me, Dick, I _offered_!" Bruce exclaimed. "And I've told you before that I will always want you to stay!"

"I'm just tired of it," the boy mumbled. "Why can't people just be nice?"

"Oh, dear," Alfred murmured.

"What's going on now, kiddo?" Bruce asked, a slight edge of anger in his tone.

"I…it's stupid. But I told you I would tell you so, uh, okay."

"Nothing that happens to you is stupid," the man nearly growled.

Dick glanced up at his guardian when he heard that tone and then quickly dropped his eyes again. He shouldn't have brought it up. Now Bruce was mad and it was Dick's fault again.

"Sorry," the nine-year-old mumbled again.

Alfred glanced at Bruce and cleared his throat. The younger man relaxed his expression and crouched down in front of his ward.

"Why is it that you always think I'm mad at you?"

"I'm sorry…"

"No, Dick. Why, when you start to tell me something that's hurting you, do you look at the ground and start mumbling?"

"Aren't you mad?"

Sighing inaudibly, Bruce put a hand under Dick's chin and gently lifted his face.

"Yes, I get mad when you're upset or scared or worried or feeling any other negative emotion. But that anger is not directed at you. And it never will be. I hate that there are people who make you feel this way; it makes me want to go…"

"That's why," Dick interrupted softly, his light-blue eyes burning holes into the dark-blue ones of his guardian. "I don't want you to feel like you have to beat somebody up just because I tell you something."

"Wait a minute," Bruce almost snapped. "Are you telling me that you think you should have just let everything at school continue to happen so that I wouldn't get mad?!"

"Master Bruce," Alfred warned quietly.

"No, Alfred, I need to understand this. You would rather be hit by that _criminal_," Bruce spat the word in disgust, "than see me upset?!"

"It's just, you were usually happy around me and I was scared that it would stop. I didn't want to give you a reason to want me to leave. He just kept saying that over and over, that you were going to be tired of me soon."

"I thought we were past this, chum," Bruce stated, his voice much calmer. "He's an idiot and was feeding you lies."

"We _are_ past this!" Dick exclaimed, his voice slightly guilty.

Raising his eyebrows skeptically, Bruce said, "From what you've been saying, I seriously doubt that. If we are past this, why are you still thinking this way?"

"Because you guys are the only ones who think I'm an okay person!" Dick snapped, surprising the men with his tone. "Everyone else thinks I'm a freak and last week some kid said I was your toy and I don't even know what that means! And he said you were probably tired of whatever it is that I'm doing because I look too stupid to be good at whatever he was talking about and I guess I am too stupid because _I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT THAT MEANS!_"

Bruce, who was still crouching, instantly jumped to his feet. Turning around, he slammed his fist into the door, making a dent that wouldn't easily be fixed. Would there ever be an end to this?! And now they had moved on to more than just calling the boy a circus freak or a nobody or whatever else they had called him. Now he was a 'toy'.

"Master Dick," Alfred said as he crouched down, "you are much more than 'okay'. You are the happiest, brightest, most intelligent child I have ever known. Even after everything that has happened, and apparently is continuing to happen, you are maintaining an outward cheerfulness that not many people could do.

I know you are hurting inside, young sir, which is why we want you to feel safe enough to tell us what's going on. Master Bruce is easily angered, yes, but only because he hates what is happening. He hates that he can't just fix everything without you having to go through it. And he feels that he's not good enough for you."

"Not good enough for _me_?!" Dick shouted. "I'm not good enough for you guys!"

Bruce punched the door one more time before turning around. Shoving his rage to the back of his mind, he took a deep breath. But he was interrupted before he could even begin.

"_And I don't even know what I'm not good enough at because nobody will ever explain it to me! They just laugh and walk away and I feel like an idiot all the time_!" Dick yelled, throwing his arms in the air to accentuate his frustration.

Alfred slowly stood up and Bruce grabbed his ward's hand.

"Let's go into the living room," he stated, a tinge of fury still outlining his voice.

"I'm sorry," Dick said timidly.

Bruce sat on the couch and pulled the boy down with him. Alfred, deciding this was a conversation between ward and guardian, left to prepare dinner.

"I don't know how else to say this to you, chum. I have never, _never_, been mad at you. Not even when you risk your safety by trying to get down from a chandelier after being stuck for ten minutes."

He tried to grin but the attempt failed miserably.

"Like Alfred said, I hate that I can't just fix everything. I hate that people make you feel bad all the time. And I hate that you're still scared enough that you think you can't come to me when things happen. But none of those things are your fault, chum. Nothing that has happened during these last few months has ever been because of something you did.

I know you feel like it is, that every time I get mad it's because you told me something that I don't want to hear. But that's the only way I know how to react. I grew up angry, I'm angry at all the injustice in this world, I'm angry that there are criminals and villains and people who hurt _children_ but I'm not angry at you."

"Is that why you became Batman?"

"That's part of it, chum, but not even Batman can make everything fine for everybody. People will still be mean, criminals will still roam the streets and there will always be injustice."

"What does it mean?"

"Well, it means that even though I sound mad…"

"No, not that," Dick interrupted. "Why do people call me a 'toy'?"

"_That_ is a conversation that we should have when you're older, kiddo."

"But they'll just keep laughing and I'm always going to feel stupid!"

"You are far from stupid, Dick, but it's something that innocent nine-year-old boys shouldn't have to hear."

"So, what do I do when they say it to me and then laugh because I'm confused?"

"It's going to be hard but you have to ignore it, chum. Just know that because they say that, they are more idiotic than they're making you feel. They don't know you and they don't know me so they have no idea what they're talking about."

"Okay."

"Please, Dick, please always remember that you can come to me with anything, anytime. Especially if it's something you can't control. I can't fix everything, but I'll do my best to try to make it better for you."

"And you're not mad at me, you're just frustrated and you hate the _things_ that happen."

"Yes, kiddo. Now, is there anything else I should know about?"

"Um, nobody's been violent?"

"Okay, that's something good to know," Bruce stated with a quiet chuckle. "Is there any way for me to help you with the kids who are calling you names?"

"I've, uh, been thinking about that, too," Dick admitted with a small, hesitant smirk. "What if Batman came to see me at school?"

There was a long pause and Dick quickly backtracked.

"I mean, that's a silly idea, why would a hero come talk to a kid, Batman's too busy and people would wonder why he's talking to me and…"

"I'll think about it," Bruce responded, surprising both of them.

"No, don't, it was a stupid idea. Just forget it."

"Perhaps Batman can come give a presentation and then take time to talk to some of the kids after presenting."

A grin lit up the boy's face. It was the same grin that Bruce used to see almost every day when he came home. The grin that had been absent for some time, although Dick had been doing a good job faking it.

"That's what I like to see," Bruce said with a grin of his own.

"Do you want to play a game while we wait for dinner?" Dick asked.

"Sure. What do you want to play?"

"WAR!" the boy yelled gleefully then ran to desk on the other side of the room to grab the deck of cards.

* * *

**One week later:**

Principal Mercer had been fired the day after Mark Jerkins had been arrested. Batman was on very good terms with the new principal, Jack Maizer. So, when the Caped Crusader asked if he could come give a presentation on heroes, the principal had no qualms and quickly agreed.

Batman was almost finished with the presentation. He wanted to end with something that was now very important to him.

"There are many types of heroes and not all of them are super. As we talked about, police officers, firefighters, teachers, and many other people can be called heroes. There is one group we didn't talk about, however, and this group is one of the most important: kids.

Kids can be heroes, too. When you see someone being mean to someone else and you stand up for that person, you're a hero. When you refuse to pass on some gossip that you know isn't true, you're a hero. And when you ignore what other people are saying about you and refuse to retaliate," here Batman found Dick's eyes and connected them with his own, "then you are a hero. I know for a fact that there are heroes in this very room and you probably don't even know about some of them. Be nice, make good choices, stand up for people who are being pushed down and you will be the best hero you can be."

The applause was deafening. Kids were instantly yelling out questions, even though Principal Maizer had said there wouldn't be a question and answer period. He walked across the stage, shook Batman's hand, and took his place at the microphone.

"Teachers, the lower grades will now return to their classrooms, where Batman will make a brief stop before he leaves. All fourth, fifth and sixth grades are to go to the playground, where Batman will spend a few minutes answering questions. Row by row, starting at the back."

The kids filed out of the multi-purpose room in a surprisingly orderly fashion. Even the little kindergartners were polite and fell into line quickly. Batman was very impressed.

It took the teachers less than seven minutes to get everyone out. Principal Maizer thanked Batman and said he would be back in a few minutes to walk the hero around to the classrooms of the younger children. Nodding, Batman walked out the side door and into the bright sunlight.

He was instantly surrounded by a large circle of clamoring kids. Everyone wanted to talk to him, or touch his utility belt, or feel his cape. Almost everyone, Batman noticed as he glanced around. Dick was standing off to the side, staring at the ground. His small hands were clenched into fists and his entire body was trembling. With fear or anger? Batman decided to find out.

There was a tall, chunky kid next to Dick. His mouth was moving and he was waving his hands around. Batman strode toward the two boys, fully expecting to hear something about Dick being a freak or a charity project or something like that. What he heard instead made him growl out loud.

"…probably tired of that. What part of you is he going to use next?"

"Leave," Batman commanded harshly.

The taller boy looked up at the looming figure of the Caped Crusader and then took off. All of the other kids stopped moving, and even talking, wanting to hear what the hero was about to say to the boy from the circus.

"I know what it means now," Dick stated softly in a shaky voice. "He made it very clear, with lots of details."

Batman went down on one knee in front of the nine-year-old but knew he couldn't do anything more than that. He wanted to pull Dick into a hug and wipe away the tears that the boy was somehow holding at bay. And he wanted to follow the other kid home and talk to his parents. But he chose to speak, instead.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, so quietly that none of the other completely-silent kids could hear. "I made a mistake; you shouldn't have had to hear it from him."

A tear slid down Dick's cheek and Batman had to struggle to refrain from wiping it away. He internally yelled at himself as Dick slid his small hand across his own face to erase the evidence.

"Can we talk at home?" the boy asked, his voice almost softer than that of Batman.

"Of course, ch…."

"No identifiers," Dick chided with a sniffle and the flash of a smirk.

"I have to go see the smaller kids. You'll let me know if he comes back, right?"

"Yes."

"Okay, I'll see you later."

Dick nodded with another sniffle and Batman stood up. It was the hardest thing he had to do today, but he did it anyway – turned around and walked away from his ward. His innocent, nine-year-old boy who now knew more about a certain subject than any child should ever have to know.

Principal Maizer met him at the side door and led him away on the short tour. Several other kids walked up to Dick and began asking questions.

"What did he say? Why was he so quiet? Do you _know_ him? What happened? Are you _crying_?! What makes _you_ so special?"

Fortunately for Dick, the teachers were calling their classes together in order to take them back to class. Unfortunately, the boy who had just given him detailed knowledge was in his class. Dick braced himself for some more details but the kid ignored him and got in line. Sighing in relief, Dick followed his teacher and the rest of the day was uneventful.

* * *

The dark-haired man watched the kids on the playground. They were all circled around Batman, clamoring for his attention. Except for two. Picking up his binoculars, the man zoomed in on the two boys that were completely ignoring the Caped Crusader.

"Johnson and Grayson," he murmured, picturing the class photos that lined the bulletin boards in the school.

There was movement in his peripheral vision so he widened the circle. Batman was standing in front of the two boys but one – Johnson – ran away after less than five seconds. Now the hero was kneeling on the ground in front of the other kid – Grayson. He was speaking to the child and the dark-haired man wished he could read lips.

Nobody else was moving and all the kids were leaning toward the pair as if the wind would carry the words to their small ears. Shaking his head, the man chuckled quietly. Kids were so much fun. But he was here for one, and apparently he had found him. Grayson had to know Batman in order to be speaking to him one-on-one, right? Batman was kneeling, was at the boy's level and was obviously talking so quietly that only the boy could hear.

With a slight smirk, the man put his binoculars back in their small case. He quietly left the shadows of the alley across from the school, heading toward his car and his new boss.


	12. Chapter 12

Bruce Wayne had the day off so he was waiting in Dick's favorite chair when the boy came home from school. Dick immediately noticed him and the little blur that usually flew to the door was now flying toward the chair.

"How was the rest of your day, chum?" Bruce asked as he scooped the boy up and gently tossed him on the couch.

"Fine," Dick answered through his laughter.

"That boy?"

"Totally ignored me!" Dick exclaimed happily.

"Master Bruce, you have a telephone call."

Alfred didn't want to interrupt such a happy scene but Commissioner Gordon was on the phone for Bruce Wayne.

"Whoever it is, tell them I'll call back, Alfred."

"It's the commissioner, sir."

"For…me?"

Alfred nodded and Bruce glanced at Dick. The boy was already opening his backpack, preparing to do homework.

"I'll be right back, chum."

Shrugging, Dick replied, "Take your time, I have triple-digit long division _and_ a three-paragraph creative story."

His tone was clearly saying 'poor me' and Bruce laughed. Leaving his ward in the living room, the man went to his study and picked up the phone.

"What can I do for you, Jim?"

"I have some bad news for you, Bruce," the commissioner stated, getting right to the point.

"You can't make it to my dinner party next Saturday?" Bruce asked, his tone light.

"Mark Jerkins escaped," the man said gravely. "Not his brother, though, which is good. The brother is the one with the violent streak."

"Except when Mark is with Dick," Bruce nearly snarled. "How did this happen, Jim?!"

"There was a riot at the State Pen. He escaped in the confusion."

"A ri…are you _kidding me_?!"

"The guards go for the career villains first when there's a riot, Bruce. We're lucky that he's the only one who got away."

"_We_ are, but not Dick!"

"I doubt he'll come after Dick. He probably knows that the two places we would expect him to go would be the school and your home."

"But you can't be sure, Jim."

Commissioner Gordon sighed and said, "No, we can't be sure. I'm sorry, Bruce. This is our top priority right now because we know he's a danger to Dick."

"No, it's because nobody else escaped," Bruce countered furiously. "Dick wouldn't be your top priority if Joker was out."

There was silence – both men knew the millionaire was correct.

"I'm going to let Batman know, Bruce, so I'll keep you updated."

"You do that, Jim," Bruce snapped sarcastically right before slamming the phone down.

"I'm sorry," the commissioner said to the dial tone.

* * *

The millionaire and the butler had both left. The doors leading to the garden were wide open and the boy was by himself. He was leaning over a table and carefully writing on a piece of lined paper. Mark grinned; it was the perfect opportunity.

Dick felt a presence and his entire body tensed. There was no logical reason to be scared but he changed the direction of his creative story anyway:

_The boy sat at the table doing his homework. Someone is out there and the boy doesn't know what to do. He's afraid that if he tries to run, he'll get hit with a bullet. He thinks about calling out for help but_

A smelly cloth wrapped itself around Dick's face and he instantly went limp. Mark Jerkins scooped the nine-year-old up, turned around and raced out the doors through which he had just entered.

* * *

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

"Yes, Commissioner?" Batman said gruffly.

He had known this call was coming so he had just stayed in his study. The Bat-phone had begun ringing fifteen seconds after Bruce had hung up on the commissioner.

"There's been a riot at the State Pen, Batman."

"Who?" the hero demanded.

"Only Mark Jerkins, thank heavens."

_Thank heavens?!_

Batman growled as the words repeated themselves in his mind.

"I already called Bruce Wayne," Commissioner Gordon continued. "I told him…"

"This is my top priority, Commissioner," Batman stated. "I will not let that man get near a child, especially Richard Grayson."

Batman slammed the phone down just as Bruce had done sixty seconds earlier.

"Thank heavens," he growled.

Deciding to check on Dick before going down to the Batcave, Bruce strode to the living room. The boy was gone, the white curtains on the open doors swaying gently in the light breeze.

"He already has him," Bruce breathed in anger. "ALFRED!" he yelled.

The butler arrived in less than five seconds and the millionaire quickly explained the situation.

"My word, Master Bruce, will the poor boy ever have some peace?!"

But Bruce was gone, already sliding down his pole into the Batcave.

* * *

**The next morning - an old shack in a dense forest just outside the eastern edge of Gotham:**

"Wake up, kid!"

The words pounded into his sleepy brain, increasing the force of the headache he already had. Dick sluggishly opened his eyes, blinking rapidly as they adjusted to the bright light above his head. He was seated on a metal chair, his arms behind the back of the chair and wrists tightly tied together with a rough rope.

"It's about time," someone in front of him growled.

Dick slowly lifted his head. The man was short and thin. His muscles weren't overly developed, but they were visible through the short sleeves of his white shirt. A pair of shockingly tight, bright-red jeans were complimented by neon-green tennis shoes. Dick thought he might be dreaming, because who in their right mind would wear an outfit like that?

"Hello, Richard. I'm Oliver, and you have some information I need. You know Batman."

It was a comment, not a question. The man's tone was gruff and there was a trace of an Australian accent. His eyes, their green color as brilliant as the sparkle of a well-cut diamond, seemed to explore every inch of Dick's face. He was searching for a hint of knowledge, but Dick was too lethargic to even accidentally give a clue.

"Tell me what you know," the man commanded.

Dick's mind was still waking up and he couldn't grasp the meaning of the words.

"I'm not a patient man. Tell me what you know!"

"What I…know?" the nine-year-old asked, confusion filling his voice.

"About Batman!"

Batman. Batman was a hero. Bruce was Batman. There was a Batcave underneath Wayne Manor. Bruce had a Bat-pole that took him down there. No matter what. He couldn't say anything about Batman's real identity, _no matter what_.

"I don't know," he stated confidently, although his voice was trembling noticeably.

"_Don't lie, kid! My man saw him talking to you on the playground. I know you know him so you must know who he is_!"

Oliver was yelling at him now and dread had replaced the sleepiness in his brain.

"I…don't know," Dick repeated, fear in both his eyes and his voice.

"I said DON'T LIE!"

The last two words were accompanied by a loud 'smack' as the man whipped his hand across the boy's left cheek. Dick cried out in pain but didn't say a word.

_No matter what_.

If 'no matter what' meant taking a beating well, he'd been through worse. So far, he only had sore wrists and now a throbbing left cheek. This was nothing compared to a fractured rib and two shattered kneecaps.

"You _will_ tell me," the man threatened darkly. "Because if you don't, your rich guardian will find pieces of you scattered around Gotham Harbor."

"You're going to kill me anyway," Dick countered bravely, "so why should I tell you, even if I _did_ know him?"

"You either tell me and die quickly, or don't tell me and die a very slow, very _painful_ death. Bruce Wayne can either have a body to bury or just chunks of flesh and bone."

"Nothing can be more painful than listening to you," the nine-year-old mumbled. He was lucky that the man hadn't heard the insult and immediately commanded himself to stay quiet.

"Do something to make him talk," Oliver said loudly.

Dick didn't know who he was speaking to; there was nobody around them that he could see. Then, from his right, a large man stepped into view.

"Mr. Jerkins?!" the boy exclaimed. "What…how…?!"

"Shut up, Grayson. Even after half a year, I'm _still_ tired of your smart attitude and the way you always show off in class. I'm tired of hearing about how kind Wayne is, taking in an _orphan_. I'm tired of watching you tumble around at recess and race the boys back to gym and win at everything _all the time!_ I'm tired of _YOU_!"

The muscular man punched the boy squarely in the chest, grinning when he heard the loud 'crack'. Dick couldn't breathe and bright lights were shooting around the room.

"Bruce!" he gasped painfully.

"He doesn't know where you are," the criminal sneered as he walked behind the chair. "No matter how loud you scream for him, he's not going to come."

This time the punch hit the small of the boy's back and he arched in pain. The movement stretched the broken rib he had just received and tears of agony burst out of his eyes.

"Besides," Jerkins continued, "he doesn't even care about you. Don't you think Batman would have found you by now if Wayne had asked for his help? Nobody cares about you, it would have been better if you had died with your parents."

"No," Dick whispered, "you're wrong. He'll find me."

"He'll find me," the man mocked in a high-pitched voice. "Then why isn't he here?!"

A large fist slammed into the nine-year-old's solar plexus and he immediately raced into the darkness that was beckoning to him.

"You were supposed to make him _talk_, not knock him out!" Oliver declared angrily.

"Well, let's wake him up then," Mark responded with a smirk.

A well-placed hand shoved itself against Dick's left forearm and the boy shuddered as the loud 'crack' resounded around the room. His eyes flipped open, the light-blue circles glazed over with pain, and he stared at his tormentor.

"Please, stop," he whispered despairingly.

"Let's make a deal," Mark stated. "You tell me who Batman is and I stop beating the crap out of you."

"I…can't."

"Can't or won't," the man snarled.

"I don't know…um, can't?"

"Are you asking me? I think the answer is won't but, obviously, you don't remember. Let me jog your memory, _Grayson_."

Jerkins spit the name out in disgust before punching Dick in the left eye. Without giving the boy a chance to recover, the man drove his fist into the small chest again. Next came a strong uppercut and the chair toppled backwards.

The nine-year-old stopped moving. His body was limp, his eyes closed and his breathing almost non-existent. Oliver rolled his eyes and walked away.

"I need him alive, idiot," he yelled as he left the room. "Take a break!"

Frowning in disappointment, Mark Jerkins walked away from the motionless body and sat down at the desk on the other side of the room. Pulling out a large book, he opened it to page three and began working on his latest word search.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

Batman was frantic and Bruce was panicking. How had Jerkins been able to get to Dick so quickly? And what was he going to do? And how bad would it be? The man wouldn't go so far as to _kill_ Dick. Batman hoped that was the case but the nine-year-old was the reason that Jerkins had gone to jail so….

"He knew, sir," Alfred stated from behind him.

"Knew what?" Batman asked, whipping his head around to face his butler.

Alfred held out a piece of paper and Batman snatched it – Dick's creative story. The boy had no idea who was there but had assumed that the person would have a gun. Of course, he had heard many stories about criminals in Gotham City. He knew that most criminals carried weapons, and one of the easiest ones to get was a gun.

"Where would he take him?" Batman murmured.

Alfred heard the anger but there was also a tinge of panic that the butler had never heard from Batman. And Alfred had no answers. There had been no other clues upstairs. Batman had already scoured the outside of Wayne Manor and all he had found was flattened grass.

_Ding._

The Current Criminal Activity Bat-disclosure Unit had been silently whirring away. Alfred was standing right next to it, so he picked up the card while Batman strode toward him.

"Do you know an Oliver Williams, sir?"

"Never heard of him," Batman replied. "Is that all it says?"

"Oliver Williams – Australia. Armed kidnapping, torture, murder."

The Caped Crusader dropped onto the nearest chair, shock on his face. Alfred had already done the same thing.

"That's a, um, rather horrific list, Master Batman."

Alfred's voice was trembling and neither Bruce nor Batman had ever heard him use a filler word.

"If Dick…but why would the Unit give us this name if Dick isn't with him? This is bad, Alfred. Is Jerkins part of it or is it just ransom?"

"Just, sir?"

"I know, it's stupid to say that. But 'just' ransom is better than torture and murder."

"Indeed, Master Batman," the butler murmured, anguish in his voice.

* * *

**An old shack in a dense forest just outside the eastern edge of Gotham:**

Dick was awake but had decided to keep his eyes closed. He was an intelligent boy and thought that maybe he could hear something useful if his captors thought he was still knocked out. The pain in his entire body was intense, and it was difficult to keep his breathing the same as it had been during his short time in the land of unconsciousness.

"Stupid kid," Mark Jerkins muttered.

His voice was coming closer and Dick's body automatically tensed.

"Oh, so you're awake!" the man growled.

He tried to relax but it was too late. Jerkins grabbed the back of the chair and lifted it. Dick was sitting up again, slightly dizzy but alert enough to look at his surroundings. There was a door right in front of him, maybe sixteen feet away. One window on either side, the bright beams from the sun making him squint when he glanced at them. It looked to be about mid-morning, but he couldn't be sure.

Dick's stomach betrayed him, growling loudly. He hadn't been able to eat dinner last night or breakfast this morning. Maybe they were waiting until lunch to feed him.

The nine-year-old was having trouble breathing. He had heard a 'crack' and assumed something had broken but, having no medical knowledge whatsoever, he had to guess that it was a rib. Did one broken rib hurt this bad? Maybe something else had broken, too.

And then the pain in his left arm registered in his mind. Dick gasped as the broken bone in his forearm made itself known.

"Oh, does something hurt?" Jerkins mocked. "Could it be this?"

Lifting a foot, Mark kicked Dick's left arm and the boy screamed.

"Please, stop," he moaned. "What do you want from me?"

"Batman's identity, just like before," Oliver stated as he re-entered the room.

"I don't…he just talked to me."

"What did he say?!" the Australian demanded.

"I don't remember," the boy whispered bravely.

_"It was yesterday_!" the man yelled. "_How can you not remember_?!"

"My head hurts," Dick mumbled, and Oliver growled.

"I have other ways of making you talk, kid. I have lots of toys that I don't mind using on little boys."

Dick had no idea what that meant. Was he going to get another beating or was it something else? The kid in his class had told him what a 'toy' was, so maybe it was that?

"I don't know," he stated as Batman's words echoed in his mind.

_No matter what._

"Fine, I'll get my bag," Oliver grumbled. "Jerkins, string him up."


	13. Chapter 13

Note: Soooooo, I'm kind of extra harsh to Dick in this chapter (I'm toughening him up to become Robin). There is a bit of extreme punishment from both Bruce's and Dick's points of view. No blood or really graphic descriptions, but still extreme. If you don't like that, just skip over those parts. Sorry and thanks.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

Batman was pacing. Stupidly, even after five months, he had neglected to give Dick a tracker. And he didn't even know if it was Oliver Williams that had him.

The Manor's phone suddenly began ringing. Batman stopped pacing and ripped his cowl off his head. Alfred picked up the receiver.

"Wayne Manor," the butler stated professionally.

"Give me Bruce Wayne."

The voice had the tiniest tinge of an Australian accent and Alfred nodded to Bruce. So, it _was_ Oliver Williams.

"This is Bruce Wayne."

"Did you know that your kid is missing?"

"Yes, of course," Bruce almost growled but changed his voice to frantic at the last second.

"Do you want to know where he is?"

"YES!" Bruce yelled.

Was the man actually going to tell him, or at least give him a clue?!

"Would you like proof of life first?"

"YES!" Bruce yelled again.

There was a short pause and then Bruce heard a sound he never wanted to hear again. The sound of Dick, his _nine-year-old ward_, screaming in pain.

"_DICK_!" he roared into the phone.

"Was that enough proof?" the other man asked, a smirk in his tone.

"Yes, please, just tell me where he is. What do you want? I'll pay anything, I'll give you anything! Just, please, let him go!"

"I only want one piece of information that he has. And, until he gives it to me, you get to listen to him crying out in pain, begging for release, and calling for you to save him. You should advise him to give me the information."

There was another pause and then the soft sound of Dick trying to hold back tears.

"Whatever he wants, kiddo, just tell him!" Bruce exclaimed frantically.

"I don't know," Dick stated, a sob choking his throat.

"Oh, he knows," Oliver spoke into the phone again. "He's just being stubborn."

"Maybe I know," Bruce stated, panic dancing around the edges of his voice. "What do you want?"

"I doubt _you_ have that knowledge," the Australian growled. "You're just a millionaire playboy who cares about nobody but himself and, surprisingly, this street rat."

"Try me," Bruce nearly growled back.

Another pause and then Dick screamed again.

Bruce's hand tightened around the phone. He picked up the nearest object with his other hand and threw it across the room.

"JUST TELL HIM!" he roared, hoping Dick could hear.

"I…don't…know," the boy repeated, panting between each word. "Please," he begged softly, "I…please…I…don't…know."

Another scream, sobs of anguish and now Bruce was close to crying. Batman was completely useless right now. And the millionaire had never had to plead for anything. He was powerful, rich and everybody gave him everything he wanted or needed. But suddenly that changed.

"Please stop, he can't…please don't do this," the man implored. "He obviously doesn't know, just ask me. Maybe you're wrong, maybe I do know!"

"My guy didn't see someone talking to _you_ on the playground yesterday so you're not the one I'm going to ask."

"Batman?!" Bruce gasped. "What do you want to know about Batman?!"

"The more questions you ask, the more screams you'll hear."

Dick screamed again but it faded quickly.

"Darn, he's unconscious. We'll just have to try again later. I'll call you back!"

The man's voice was disappointed and then cheerful. Bruce heard a dial tone and he slammed the phone down. Alfred stared at him, tears streaming down his wrinkled cheeks.

"You heard…" Bruce whispered.

"Yes, Master Bruce," the butler whispered back. "What would he want to know about Batman? What could be so important that he would go this far?"

"What does every criminal want to know, Alfred? My identity, probably."

"You told Master Dick 'no matter what', sir. He obviously took those words to heart, Master Bruce. Is there any chance that it's not that?"

"There's always a chance, Alfred, but this one seems quite small. Why did I say that to him, how could I put that pressure on him? HE'S NINE!"

Bruce sat down and dropped his head into his hands.

"He's nine," he whispered, his tone filled with guilty anguish.

* * *

**An old shack in a dense forest just outside the eastern edge of Gotham:**

Dick was hanging from the ceiling. The rope around his wrists had been attached to a metal ring and the rope was just short enough that he couldn't reach the ground with even his toes.

Oliver came back in with a black bag. He placed it on the table on the far side of the room and unzipped it. The first thing he pulled out was a knife, and Dick's eyes widened. Then, the man pulled out a whip, and Dick's body began to tremble. Finally, he pulled out a tire iron and Dick had enough experience with that to last a lifetime.

"Which one first? Sharp knife, metal rod or soft whip," the man asked, glancing at Dick with an evil grin. "Shirt," he demanded.

Mark Jerkins was concerned. He was okay with beating the kid up but…torture? Did his new boss want the information so badly that he was going to torture a _nine-year-old_? He thought back to his days teaching fourth grade. The kids, so eager to learn, so excited to watch Mr. Jerkins do his magic tricks. Not even _Grayson_ deserved this.

"_I said, take off his shirt!_" Oliver commanded.

"No," Mark said softly, shaking his head. "The boy is nine and says he doesn't know. You can't go this far."

"You wanted revenge, right?" the Australian sneered. "This is revenge."

"Not like this, not even he deserves this. I know, I was his teacher. He's a smart kid. If he says he doesn't know, he doesn't know."

"You're ridiculous," Oliver snarled, pulling a gun from the bag.

"Wait," Mark said, raising his hands in surrender. "Just…at least leave his shirt on."

His voice was trembling. He glanced at Dick, his eyes full of fear, and said, "This shouldn't be happening but self-preservation is higher on my list of priorities."

"I…I get it," Dick whispered, his voice shaky and outlined with terror.

Oliver was suddenly in front of them, tire iron in hand. He swung and the metal hit Mark on the side of his head. Jerkins crumpled to the ground, blood streaming from the wound.

Then Oliver took out a cell phone.

"We're calling Daddy. Phone number," he demanded.

Dick shut his mouth so Oliver swung again. The hit, light compared to what Michael had done five months ago, landed on his right shin. But still there was a 'crack' and Dick whimpered in pain. Oliver held up the tire iron again and the boy quickly gave him the number to Wayne Manor.

There was a short conversation, during which Oliver walked back to the table and grabbed the whip. He removed the phone from his ear and returned to Dick.

"Don't worry, soft whips don't draw blood. They just sting really, _really_, bad and leave lovely bruises. This one is Daddy Wayne's warning."

Drawing his arm back, Oliver brought the whip down toward Dick. He barely knicked the boy's broken rib, but still Dick yelled out in pain.

"_DICK!_"

It was Bruce roaring and Dick decided to try to cover up the pain. He sniffled and pushed his aching chest to the back of his mind. It was a futile attempt, however, because as soon as he heard Bruce demanding that he tell the criminal whatever he wanted, Dick broke down.

"I don't know," he cried, a sob forcing its way into his throat.

_No matter what_.

The thought echoed in his mind again. But did Batman think he should go this far?

Oliver brought the phone back to his ear. Another short conversation, another drawing back of the arm, and then the material slammed across his torso. It left a trail of fiery pain and Dick couldn't hold back the scream of agony.

"JUST TELL HIM!" he heard Bruce roar.

"I…don't…know," Dick repeated, panting between each word. "Please," he begged softly as he saw Oliver lift the whip again, "I…please…I…don't…know."

This time it hit his broken arm then wrapped itself around his head. The man was correct, it didn't draw blood, but it hurt more than anything Dick had ever felt in his entire life.

Another short conversation and then Oliver's arm went up again. This time Dick screamed before it even happened and fell into the inviting black hole, leaving the world behind.

Oliver was disappointed. He had never had someone fall unconscious so quickly but, then again, the boy was only nine. Shrugging, he returned the soft whip to the table and strode out the door, leaving two unconscious bodies behind him.

* * *

**Thirty minutes later:**

Oliver checked on them for the third time. Neither body was moving so he sighed and decided it was time for lunch. Walking out the front door, he strode to his car, got in and drove away. The nearest town was half an hour north but Jerkins wouldn't be alert enough to do anything if he woke up and the boy would probably be out for at least another hour.

Unbeknownst to the Australian, Mark Jerkins was already awake. He heard the car drive off and slowly opened his eyes. There were two people hanging above him and the world was swirling around. But, he still had his cell phone in his pocket.

Slowly, the man sat up. The only number he could remember would go to the office of Principal Mercer. He dialed the familiar number and an unfamiliar voice picked up.

"Principal Maizer speaking."

"Gray…son…Wayne…McGraw ha's…"

Mark dropped to the ground again and his cell phone gently slid out of his hand.

"Hello? Who is this?"

Principal Maizer received no answer so he hung up.

"That was strange," he murmured.

The principal thought carefully for a few moments and then made a decision. Picking up the phone again, he called Commissioner Gordon.

* * *

**Commissioner Gordon's office:**

"That _is_ strange," the commissioner agreed after hearing Principal Maizer's story. "Do you have any ideas of what it could mean?"

There was a pause and then the commissioner nodded.

"Yes, I'm assuming whoever it was meant Bruce Wayne. Possibly Dick Grayson? I'll give the man a call and ask him if he has heard anything. Thank you, Principal Maizer."

Commissioner Gordon put down the phone and it was his turn to think for a moment.

"Maybe I should tell Batman, first," he pondered out loud.

He waited a moment longer and then nodded his head. Decision made, he stood up and strode to the bright-red phone sitting under its glass case.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP._

"Yes, Commissioner?"

Bruce had snatched the phone off its receiver as soon as he heard it. Then he realized that the commissioner probably didn't even know Dick was missing.

"Batman, Principal Maizer received a strange call a few minutes ago. I thought I should tell you before I contact Bruce Wayne. The man, whoever he was, said 'Gray son Wayne McGraw' and then something that the principal said could have sounded like 'house'. Have you heard anything about Bruce Wayne or his young ward, Dick Grayson?"

"That _is_ strange, Commissioner. I'll take care of it."

The Caped Crusader hung up the phone without saying goodbye. Grabbing his cowl, he quickly put it on and raced to the Batmobile. The old McGraw house was on the eastern edge of the city, hidden in a dense forest.

"Be careful, sir!" Alfred called as the Batmobile roared away.

* * *

**An old shack in a dense forest just outside the eastern edge of Gotham:**

Oliver Williams, on a hunch, had returned to the crumbling remains of the McGraw house. The first thing he saw was Mark Jerkins' cell phone lying on the ground. It was off, so Oliver felt relatively safe, but wondered if the man had been able to call anyone. Perhaps it would be best to move the boy to a different location.

Nodding his head, Oliver went to the table and retrieved his knife. He stood on the chair Dick had been tied to in order to reach the ring hanging from the ceiling. After several seconds of hard work, he was finally able to saw through the rope. The boy dropped to the ground, his head hitting the back of the chair as he fell.

Batman, meanwhile, had just parked the Batmobile in the forest about fifty yards away from the old shack. He could see a car and needed the advantage of surprise. Sprinting through the trees as quietly as he could, the hero arrived at the McGraw house in less than twenty seconds.

The Caped Crusader crept around the edge of the house, flattening himself against the wall. When he got to the window, he carefully peered around the corner. An unfamiliar man was standing on a chair, looking at the ground with a satisfied grin. There, lying on the floor and not moving, was Bruce Wayne's nine-year-old ward. Next to him was the motionless body of Mark Jerkins, a cell phone next to his left hand.

Had _Jerkins_ called the principal?! That was a question that didn't matter right now, Batman decided. What mattered was that the other man was at a table on the other side of the room, putting things into a black bag. Without hesitation, Batman sprinted to the front of the house, burst through the door and ran straight at Oliver.

The criminal turned around, surprise in his eyes, and had no time to react. Batman was already upon him, his fists flying around the man's body, leaving blood and bruises everywhere. When Oliver finally dropped to the ground, the Caped Crusader wasted no more time on the man. Instead, he raced to the center of the room, where Dick was lying on his back.

Kneeling down, Batman yelled Dick's name and carefully shook the boy's shoulders. There was no movement, so he shook harder. Still nothing and the hero was now extremely worried.

The boy was breathing – barely – but Batman couldn't find a pulse. He tried Dick's neck, then his right wrist and finally his left. Again, still nothing, so the Caped Crusader placed a heavy hand on the small chest.

"Come on, Dick," he murmured as he started walking his fingers around the boy's ribs. One was broken and, unfortunately, another was about to break.

"Sorry," Batman stated as he pushed down on the ribs protecting Dick's heart.

There was a slight give but nothing else happened. So, the hero did it again…and again…over and over until he heard the telltale 'crack'. Batman pushed down one last time and felt the tiny beat that he had been searching for. It was slow and sluggish, but it was there.

"Good job, kiddo."

Pulling out his Bat-knife, the Caped Crusader quickly cut the rope that was holding Dick's wrists together. His own hands were shaking, Batman noticed. Batman's hands were never shaky. This was affecting him more than even he had known.

"Status report," he whispered, something that, although he didn't know it now, he would be saying frequently in the future.

Broken left arm, fractured right shin, several large bruises – dark, ugly, whip-shaped bruises – blossoming under his torn shirt, two broken ribs, deep bruise that circled the top of his head like a crown, small head wound, and slightly bloody wrists.

"I need you to open your eyes, Dick," Batman stated loudly. "Give me something to work with here. Help me out, kiddo."

There was a nearly inaudible grunt and then the eyelids fluttered.

"That's right, keep going," the Caped Crusader encouraged.

"No. Matter. What."

Anyone listening wouldn't have been able to understand the mumbled words. Batman, however, wasn't just 'anyone'.

"I am so sorry, kiddo. I shouldn't have…you should have…"

"Promised," was the quiet reply. "No matter what."

"But you shouldn't have let it go this far, chum. Nothing, not even that, is more important than your life."

"Promised," the nine-year-old whispered again as he opened his eyes a fraction of an inch.

Batman shook his head, guilt in his eyes. He pulled the can of Bat-sleep out of his utility belt. Dick didn't need to be in more pain than he already was, especially since Batman had to pick up him with two broken ribs, a broken arm, and a heavily bruised torso.

The Caped Crusader sprayed a gentle mist in his ward's face and watched his eyelids close and his face relax. Replacing the Bat-sleep in his utility belt, Batman slid his arms under Dick's body and carefully picked him up. The dark head dropped back so the hero adjusted his grip to support the small neck.

"Okay, you strong boy, let's go home."


	14. Chapter 14

**The next morning:**

"Sir, we should take him to the hospital!"

"It would be the second extended hospital stay in six months, Alfred! Do you _want_ him to be taken away from us?!"

"Of course not, sir, but his fever hasn't gone down in four hours! Would you rather risk his life, Master Bruce?!"

The two frustrated men were yelling at each other. Alfred's normally calm, soothing, reassuring tone was full of irritation. Bruce was furious at everyone: himself, Oliver, Jerkins, Batman, the guards at the State Pen and Commissioner Gordon – although that man hadn't done anything except deliver bad news.

Dick was lying motionless on the soft bed in his own bedroom. His skin was scalding hot, sweat was glistening on every inch of his body, his heart was racing and his breathing was erratic. The fever had reached 104 before slowly receding to 101.7 but now it was back up to 103. And it hadn't changed, even after he had been given fever reducers and both men had washed his entire body with several cool washcloths.

"Broken bones, bruises everywhere, we might as well just _give_ him away if we take him to the hospital!"

"A nine-year-old boy's life is at stake, Master Bruce!"

"_Our_ nine-year-old boy, Alfred!"

"Br'ss?"

The exhausted voice of Dick Grayson stopped their argument.

"I'm here, chum," Bruce whispered, dropping to his knees by the boy's bed.

"Can you…can Alf…can…"

"Shhh, kiddo," Bruce commanded quietly as he softly ran his hand over Dick's forehead.

Alfred already had the thermometer in his hand. Into the boy's mouth it went and out it came two seconds later: 102.

"Ho'd fin' me?"

"You're not going to believe this," Bruce responded, "but Mark Jerkins called Principal Maizer who called Commissioner Gordon who called Batman."

"Mr. J'ins?!"

"Yes," Bruce stated, chuckling at the disbelief in his ward's voice.

"Broken…"

"Alfred took care of everything, chum. Your leg doesn't need a cast, thankfully, and your forearm was a clean break so it doesn't require surgery – again, thankfully. He wrapped your ribs and put some ointment on your bruises. The small cut on the side of your head has been stitched up and now you're awake."

Dick was struggling to keep his eyes open. Alfred put a cool washcloth on the boy's forehead and Bruce wiped away the moisture on his face with a dry towel.

"Go to sleep," the men murmured at the same time.

But it was unnecessary, because Dick was already in the depths of a healing sleep.

* * *

**Several hours later:**

"NOOOOOOOOO!"

Both Bruce and Alfred rushed into Dick's room. The boy was thrashing around, his legs tangled in the sheets and blood seeping from one of his wrists. Bruce arrived at his bedside first and he immediately grabbed his ward's flailing arms.

"Dick, chum, calm down! We're here, it's just us, you're okay!"

The light-blue eyes flew open and Dick sat straight up, gasping for air. His eyes, wild with terror, began darting around the room, seeing everything and nothing at the same time.

"Okay, kiddo, you're okay," Bruce stated softly, pulling the boy into a gentle embrace.

"Never safe," Dick mumbled. "Never going to be safe."

"Hey, let's not think that way."

"Teach me."

"What?"

"Teach me how to protect myself."

Dick carefully pushed his way out of the hug and stared into the dark-blue eyes of his guardian.

"I don't know, chum…"

"Please, Bruce, it will help me. I know it will. Think what could have happened if I had been able to fight my way out of Michael's grasp. Or if I could have blocked…some…hits…"

His voice trailed off at the look at Bruce's face. The man was unintentionally glaring at the boy and thinking that he might not have even found out about the situation at school if Dick had been able to 'block some hits'. But his ward did have a point. Perhaps with some training, he could have escaped from Michael without getting his kneecaps shattered.

"Never mind," Dick muttered.

"I'll teach you some basic things," Bruce acquiesced. "Enough so you can defend yourself if the need ever arises again. Which it won't," he added quickly.

"I don't want to be scared my whole life, Bruce."

"Which is part of why I just agreed. You are one of the bravest people I know and adding a few defensive skills will give you some confidence."

"Thanks, Bruce," Dick whispered. "Will you, uh, stay? Just until I fall asleep?"

"Kiddo, I'll stay here as long as you need me to. But you need to eat something before you go back to sleep."

Alfred, who had left several minutes earlier, re-entered the room with his usual impeccable timing.

"I brought soup, Master Dick," he declared.

"Thanks, Alfred, but I'm not really hungry."

Dick's stomach suddenly growled as the smell of chicken noodle soup drifted in front of his face.

"I think your stomach begs to differ, young sir," the butler said with a smile.

Bruce helped his ward get situated and then Alfred placed the tray on a small, portable table. Dick was hesitant at first but finished the entire bowl in less than ten minutes.

"Now you can rest, chum," Bruce stated.

"When can we start training?"

Alfred, who had removed the tray and was about to walk out the door, froze. Slowly, he turned around and waited for an answer.

Bruce glanced at his butler, whose eyebrows were raised in astonishment.

"Let's not talk about that right now, kiddo. You need to sleep."

After Dick had fallen asleep, Bruce stood up and walked over to his still-frozen butler.

"Training, Master Bruce?" Alfred whispered, shock in his voice.

"Self-defense, Alfred, nothing more."

"I see," the butler murmured.

Turning around again, he walked out the door and down the stairs. Could Batman actually train a small child in basic, self-defense maneuvers? Alfred decided to make sure he was always nearby when they "trained", just in case Bruce went into Batman mode. Batman had never had to hold back when fighting and Bruce had never fought. It was going to be interesting, seeing if the man could merge the two worlds and manage to balance them enough to be able to teach his young ward.

* * *

**Several weeks later:**

Dick's nightmares had shifted. Instead of watching his parents fall almost every night, sometimes he would see himself in the hands of Oliver Williams, or under the strong foot of Michael Wickers.

He had tried to stop screaming or crying but nothing ever helped. He was back to apologizing every night for waking up his guardian. And Bruce, in turn, still always stated that the boy didn't have to apologize for something he couldn't control.

But things were going well at school, an unusual turn of events. Ever since Batman had knelt down and talked to Dick, alone, things had changed. The nine-year-old even had a few friends – _real_ friends, not just kids who hung around because of his conversation with Batman.

And so Bruce had decided that now would be a good time for the boy to learn a few skills. They would meet in the gym almost every day, with a nearly-invisible Alfred always close by. Dick's natural athleticism allowed him to catch on quickly, and the men found out that he had an extraordinary ability to pay attention to the small details. He understood the nuances of correct footwork and was very skilled at reading the body language of an opponent in order to block what was thrown at him.

Of course, the movements were all very basic but still, it was rather impressive. And Bruce had been balancing himself well – always gentle enough to avoid damage but just enough power to help Dick understand the best way to hold his arm, or move his body, or whatever other defensive maneuver they worked on.

"Can I learn offense?" Dick had eagerly asked one day.

"Absolutely not," Bruce had stated firmly, and the boy had dropped the subject.

But dropping it with Bruce didn't mean he had forgotten about it. Sometimes, after Batman had left and Alfred was in the Batcave waiting for the man's return, Dick would creep down to the gym. He had secretly recorded one of Batman's training routines and hidden the tape in an unused cupboard in the back of the gym.

Dick would play the recording over and over, his movements mirroring the ones on the screen. After six or seven nights, spread out over three weeks, the nine-year-old had the entire seven-minute training exercise memorized. And these maneuvers were much more than basic. It was an extremely complicated and intricate workout, and Dick was exhausted after every round. But he also noticed that he was a little stronger than he had been before – not that he had ever been a weakling after eight years of training as an acrobat and aerialist.

One night he almost got caught. Batman had received a rather serious injury and had returned home early. After Alfred had stitched him up, both men had returned to the Manor and gone to the kitchen for a quick, light snack. That was when Dick had heard them. He had turned off the tape and was halfway up the stairs when the light from the kitchen streamed into the hallway that led to the stairs.

"What was that?" Bruce had asked softly when he heard what sounded like quiet footsteps.

Both men had moved quickly, their first thought that somebody had come to kidnap Dick. When Bruce opened the door to Dick's bedroom, he saw the boy peacefully sleeping in the middle of the bed. The man had checked the entire room and, upon finding nothing unusual, had retired to his own room.

But the next day:

"Dick!" Bruce yelled sharply.

The boy was doing his homework in the living room when the man yelled his name. Quickly putting down his pencil, Dick jumped to his feet and raced to the gym, where Bruce was watching a tape of himself – as Batman – doing a training exercise.

"Where did you get this and what is it doing in here?" Bruce demanded when he heard his ward enter the room.

"Um…what is it?" Dick asked, guilt already filling his voice.

Turning to face the boy, Bruce stated, "I told you no offense. Where did you get this recording?"

Dick shifted his gaze to the tape and then looked back at his guardian.

"I may have, um, I just wanted to, well…"

"Dick," Bruce growled.

"Ijustwanttobelikeyou!"

The sentence that rushed out of Dick's mouth sounded more like one word and Bruce had no idea what the boy had just said.

"Slower, please," he lightly commanded.

"I…"

The pause was long and Bruce was becoming impatient.

"Sorry!" Dick yelled, then turned around and raced out of the room.

"He said he wants to be like you, Master Bruce," Alfred said quietly from his usual place in the shadows. "Both you and Batman are his heroes, sir," he stated wisely.

"What?! No, I don't think that's what he said. Your ears must be getting old, Alfred," Bruce replied with a hint of amusement in his tone.

"He's right," Dick's soft voice floated in from just outside the doorway. "I just want to be like you. You're so amazing; I want to be amazing, too."

"Dick, you've got it all wrong," Bruce said. "Come in here, please."

The boy obeyed and the man beckoned him over. They both sat down on the mats.

"You're the amazing one, chum," Bruce stated. "I want to be like _you_, but you shouldn't ever want to be like me."

"Why not?"

"Because what I do, what _Batman_ does, is not always the right thing to do. Sometimes I go too far, sometimes criminals get away, sometimes I lose myself in a darkness that nobody should ever have to face."

"Then why do you do it?"

"I made a promise to myself, and I always keep my promises."

"But…"

"Dick, you are the light that brings me out of that darkness. When I come home from work, you're always there to greet me. When I come home in the early hours of the morning, you're the first thought that enters my mind and the darkness retreats. I wish I could be the same way for you."

"That's a dumb thing to say," Dick blurted.

Bruce was speechless. He mentally searched through everything he had just said but found nothing even remotely 'dumb'.

"I mean, you and Alfred are the best things that have happened to me since my…since _that_ night. You don't have to wish to be the _same_ as me, you're already better!"

Bruce looked like he was about to disagree, which would start an argument that would circle around and never stop. So, Alfred stepped in.

"I think we should call it a draw, gentlemen. You see, young sir, Master Bruce has never been happier than he is now, so you have made him a better person. On the other hand, many children would have spiraled into something akin to what Batman calls 'darkness' if they had gone through what you have. You haven't, because both Bruce and Batman have always been there for you. That, and your naturally cheerful disposition. So, he has helped you become the best person you can be after everything that's happened to you."

"But…" both Dick and Bruce began.

"That is my final word, sirs. I have lived on this earth longer than both of you put together and I have the wisdom that comes from experience. Therefore, we shall call it a draw. And I don't want to hear any arguing about this – you are both good for each other."

"Okay," they both sighed.

Dick stood up but Bruce hadn't forgotten why they were here.

"No offense, chum, you only need to know defense."

"But…"

"Richard John Grayson, promise me that you will not record me or watch tapes of me and try to learn from them."

With a giant sigh, Dick replied, "I promise I won't record you or watch tapes of you."

_I have it memorized anyway._


	15. Chapter 15

**Several weeks later:**

Bruce, as he had said he would, had installed a trapeze in the gym. Dick had ignored everything else in there for an entire week. He had even stopped practicing Batman's training exercise. But that didn't mean he had forgotten it.

It was a normal Friday afternoon. Bruce always tried to leave work early on Fridays but that didn't usually happen. Dick knew this and, therefore, wasn't expecting the man to arrive at Wayne Manor only half an hour after Dick got home from school.

There was no grinning face waiting for him and Bruce was disappointed. But he knew where his ward would be so, after handing his briefcase and jacket to Alfred, Bruce headed for the gym. When he arrived at the door, he flattened himself against the wall and carefully peered around the corner.

The man was expecting to see the boy flying. So, he was surprised when he saw Dick practicing his fighting skills on the mats. His movements looked better than the last time Bruce had worked with him, and the man was proud.

But then Bruce realized why Dick looked so much better – he was doing Batman's training exercise. The one that Bruce had specifically instructed his ward _not_ to do.

Pulling his head back, Bruce took a deep breath. He didn't want to spoil a Friday, so he decided an irritated lecture would be better than an angry confrontation.

"Dick," he said firmly as he strode around the corner.

The nine-year-old whipped his head around, eyes wide and startled like a deer in the headlights.

"I remember telling you _not_ to do that," Bruce declared.

"No," Dick quickly countered, "you told me not to _record_ or _watch_ you. And I'm not doing either of those."

Bruce glanced at the TV and realized it was off. Dick was right on both counts – the man had said 'record' and 'watch' and the boy was obeying those instructions.

"I have it memorized," Dick confessed after a moment of silence.

"What?!"

It was one of Batman's harder routines, one that had taken several months to create and perfect. But Dick, it seemed, had learned it in less than a month!

"I didn't have to create it, I just copied it," the boy stated. "And I'm not that good at it."

Dick, apparently, could still read Bruce like a book. The man schooled his features into less of a 'how did you do it so quickly when it took me so long' expression and attempted to frown. His ward was much better than 'not that good' but he was supposed to be upset, not impressed.

"I don't really understand the kick sequence in the middle," Dick continued. "I won't practice it anymore if you don't want me to."

The nine-year-old's voice was both apologetic and disappointed.

"The only reason I've always declined to teach you offense is because you'll never need it," Bruce explained. "Unless you intend to go around starting…"

He trailed off at the look on the boy's face. Realizing what he had just said, Bruce tried to recover.

"I know you would never do that, though."

Dick was looking at him dubiously, one eyebrow raised cynically.

"I didn't mean…I shouldn't have said that," the man acknowledged with a sigh.

With a smirk, Dick replied, "It was a long time ago. I'm over it."

_Mostly. I guess. Of course. It's fine._

To a nine-year-old, Bruce supposed, seven months could be considered a 'long time ago'. Although it had been very traumatic so perhaps the boy was just putting on a brave face.

"What's Halloween?" Dick asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"It's a holiday. People put on costumes and go to parties," Bruce responded with a touch of exasperation.

"And what's trick or treat?"

"You've really never heard of Halloween or trick-or-treating?" the man asked in disbelief.

Dick shook his head, so Bruce continued.

"Kids, in their costumes, go around to different houses and ask for treats."

"What's the 'trick' part?" Dick asked, confusion dancing through the words.

"There's not really a 'trick'. It's just what the kids say."

"So…what's the point?"

"I don't…to give kids an excuse to ask for candy?"

"From _strangers_?!"

"Well, usually kids stay in their neighborhoods, so they aren't exactly strangers. Most of the time, anyway."

"Okay, let me get this straight. People put on costumes and go to parties while their kids put on costumes and go around asking for treats but not doing anything tricky and everyone just gives them candy anyway."

"Um…yes," Bruce stated. "Is this something you want to do?"

Secretly, the man really hoped his ward would say no. But he wasn't going to deny the boy the option of trying it. Dick, however, was staring at him in disbelief.

"Why?!" the nine-year-old exclaimed.

"Well, most kids like it. They get free candy."

"Can't they get free candy from their parents?"

"Good point. So, you don't want to do it?"

Shaking his head, Dick replied, "It seems like a waste of time. There are so many other, better things I could be doing."

"Dinner time, sirs," Alfred stated from the doorway.

By the time dinner was over, Dick had already forgotten the conversation.

* * *

**Several weeks later:**

"Alfred, what's Thanksgiving?"

"You've never celebrated that holiday, Master Dick?" Alfred asked, slightly shocked at the revelation.

"No, I just know we have three days off of school."

"Well, young sir, it is a day for expressing gratitude."

"For something specific?"

"No, Master Dick, it can be for anything."

"Okay, thanks," the boy responded before turning away, a thoughtful look on his young face.

"Bruce, do you do Thanksgiving?" Dick asked after dinner that night.

"Um…not really. It's always been just Alfred and I so there's never really been…"

"Because you guys already know you're thankful for each other," Dick interrupted softly, almost as if he were talking to himself.

"And we're thankful for you," Bruce immediately added.

"Hmmm," the boy murmured in what the man thought might be agreement.

Dick turned around and walked away, heading up the stairs to his room. The thoughtful look returned, the wheels in his intelligent mind whirring away.

* * *

**The next morning:**

"I'm ready!" Dick declared as he walked into the dining room.

"For what?" Bruce murmured, his eyes on the newspaper.

The nine-year-old stood next to his guardian's chair and patiently waited. After nearly a minute of silence, Bruce lowered the paper and looked at his ward quizzically.

"I don't know exactly when Thanksgiving is," Dick began, "so I'm doing it today. If that's okay with you," he added.

"Ummm…"

"I'm thankful for you and Alfred and Batman and this house and a healthy body and the gym and food and school and my friends and the State Pen and doctors and…"

Dick paused to take a breath. Bruce opened his mouth to reply but the boy was already speaking again.

"…and my time in the circus even though it ended badly and my parents," here Dick quickly swiped a small drop of moisture off his cheek, "and the trapeze you added and the blue chair in the living room and that you have a job…"

He paused to breathe again so Bruce jumped in.

"Wait, chum, stop for a minute."

"But…I'm not done," Dick stated, both surprise and confusion in his tone.

"You don't have to stand in front of me and list everything you're thankful for."

"I should have waited for Alfred!" the boy exclaimed.

"No, that's not what I meant."

"But…Alfred said it's a day for expressing gratitude! Am I doing it wrong? Should I write it instead? Am I supposed to give you a card?!"

Dick's flustered voice was anxious and he was shifting his weight from one foot to the other.

"There's nothing 'wrong' with it but expressing gratitude doesn't mean you have to tell me every single thing you're grateful for."

"Then what am I _supposed_ to do?"

"There's not a…well, most people get together with their families and have a big dinner."

"And that's it?!" Dick nearly shouted incredulously. "How is doing _that_ expressing gratitude?!"

"It's also symbolic of the feast that the Pilgrims and…"

"Wait, I learned about that, but my teacher didn't say anything about Thanksgiving while we were learning it!"

"Really?" Bruce asked, a touch of surprise in his voice. "That's sometimes referred to as the first Thanksgiving."

"You guys have some weird holidays," the boy mumbled.

Bruce waited but Dick didn't continue. The silence was slightly awkward and the man needed to fill it.

"Why are you grateful for the State Pen?"

"Because that's where _they_ are locked up!"

"Oh, of course," Bruce quickly agreed.

_Even though Jerkins was able to escape during a riot._

That was Batman's thought, but he didn't voice it.

"So, when is Thanksgiving?" Dick asked.

"Tomorrow," Bruce replied with a slight grin.

"Okay."

The nine-year-old walked to his spot and sat down. Not another word was spoken as both man and boy began eating their food.

* * *

**Later that night:**

Batman had just returned from a short patrol. Nobody had been out so he had decided to go home. After showering, thanking Alfred, and checking on Dick, the millionaire went to bed.

The clinking of metal against metal woke him up. Bruce looked at his clock – 3AM. What would be making that sound at three in the morning?

Slipping out of bed, Bruce stealthily made his way downstairs. The kitchen light was on but there was no logical reason for Alfred to be in there this early. He crept to the door, pushed it open slightly and peeked inside.

Dick was sitting on the floor in front of the oven, staring intently at the appliance. There was a towel on the floor in front of him and his hands were moving rapidly above it. Doing what, Bruce had no idea, so he decided to find out.

"What are you doing, chum?" he asked as he strode through the door.

Dick yelped in surprise and Bruce immediately noticed the drops of red that began dripping from the boy's hands onto the towel.

Assuming it was blood, the man quickly covered the distance between himself and Dick. He grabbed a towel on the way there and then knelt down by the boy. Gently grabbing his ward's left arm, Bruce turned it so Dick's palm was facing up. The entire hand was a light, crimson color.

"It's just strawberry juice, Bruce," Dick stated with a tiny roll of his eyes. "I'm making…I mean, you said people had a big dinner so I wanted to do that for you and Alfred. Obviously, I can't make a giant feast so I'm just baking some little pies. Do you like cherry pie or strawberry pie or apple pie? Or, if you don't like any of those, I can make a different one," he added, uncertainty in his voice.

It was then that Bruce noticed the rest of the kitchen. Flour covered every countertop, the sink was full of all sorts of baking odds and ends, the egg container sitting on the table was empty and long strings of green apple peels were draped over the garbage can like the tentacles of an octopus.

"Dick," he sighed, "it's great that you want to do this but why at three in the morning?"

"It's the only time I can use the kitchen without Alfred noticing. I can't really bake him a surprise pie if he's standing here watching, can I?"

His voice sounded slightly exasperated, as if Bruce should have already known that and was foolish for asking the question.

"Of course not, kiddo," the man sighed again.

"Um, they're done so can you please let go of my arm before they burn?"

Bruce had been holding Dick's left arm during the entire explanation. He quickly let go and Dick grabbed the oven mitts that were on the floor right next to him. Standing up, the boy opened the oven and expertly extracted three small pies. Every crust was lightly browned to perfection and the delicious smell of homemade baking began wafting through the kitchen.

"Smells good," Bruce mumbled, dreaming of pies and impressed with a certain child who could create something so perfect.

Then he opened his eyes. It didn't smell good, it smelled like…

"Sir, something is burning!"

Alfred's voice faded. He had knocked on Bruce's door, nearly yelling as he did so, then rushed away. Some part of the Manor was on fire!

Bruce, who could move much faster than his older butler, reached the bottom of the stairs before Alfred. The kitchen light was on, just as it had been in his dream.

"Dick!" he yelled as he ran through the kitchen door.

Alfred was right behind Bruce. Upon entering the kitchen, he froze and stared at his domain in shock.

There was flour everywhere, a thin layer coating almost everything like new-fallen snow. A broken egg lay on the floor by the table, the yolk sliding away like slow-moving, yellow lava. The oven door was open and Dick was right beside it, staring mournfully at a black lump that might have been a pie.

"Master Dick," Alfred stated, quickly regaining his wits, "we must get that out immediately! Move out of the way, please, young sir."

Bruce already had the oven mitts and was gently pushing his ward to the side. Carefully, the man grabbed the offending object, pulled it out and set it on top of the stove.

"Master Dick," Alfred began sternly, "why on earth are you in here, _by yourself_…"

"A surprise for Thanksgiving?" Bruce interrupted as he closed the oven door.

"How did you know?" Dick gasped in surprise.

The men got their first good look at the boy. He, too, was covered in flour, the layer on his face broken only by the tear tracks weaving their way through the blanket of white. A small piece of eggshell was stuck in his dark bangs. His left hand was wrapped in a towel, the ends held together by a clothespin.

"Dick," Bruce began in a calm tone that was outlined in irritation.

"Before you lecture him, Master Bruce, maybe we should check his hand."

With a quick nod, Bruce knelt in front of his ward and gently unwrapped the towel. The boy's index finger was leaking blood from a short but fairly deep cut.

"Good heavens, Master Dick," Alfred commented with a nearly inaudible sigh.

"I'm sorry," Dick replied, his voice full of sorrow and his bottom lip trembling.

"What happened, kiddo?"

"I was peeling the apples and the knife slipped," the boy admitted quietly. "I thought the towel would stop it."

"How do you feel?" Bruce demanded, although his voice was still calm. "Dizzy at all? Confused, tired?"

"I'm fine, Bruce, it's only a little bit."

"A 'little bit' can add up quickly, chum. How long has it been bleeding?"

"Well, I started making the pie maybe…I don't know. It takes twenty-five minutes to bake and the apples took a long time to peel. I cut myself when I was almost done so maybe half an hour?"

"Master Dick, the pie itself has been baking longer than half an hour. I would say it happened around forty-five minutes ago, Master Bruce."

Alfred retrieved a small piece of gauze and some medical tape from a nearby drawer. He handed the supplies to Bruce, who quickly wrapped the boy's finger. The younger man opened his mouth but Alfred laid a firm hand on his shoulder.

"I think, sir, that bed is the best place for him to be right now."

Nodding in agreement, Bruce stood up and grabbed Dick's uninjured hand. The pair quietly left the kitchen but, instead of immediately heading upstairs, Bruce directed his ward to the bathroom that was right across the hall.

"We have to clean you up first," the man stated, picking the eggshell out of the boy's hair with a slight grin.

Twenty minutes later, a freshly-cleaned Dick Grayson was settled in bed.

"I'm sorry," he said again.

"We'll talk about it in the morning, chum. Go to sleep."

Dick obeyed and Bruce left. Alfred was slowly climbing the stairs, weariness etched on his weathered features.

"Never in my life have I ever cleaned a mess as big as that one, Master Bruce," he commented softly. "Not even when _you_ tried your hand at cooking."

"You should have let me help, Alfred!"

"The young master needed you more than I, sir. Please tell me you didn't lecture him."

"No, I told him we would discuss it tomorrow."

"Try to be gentle, Master Bruce," Alfred advised. "His confidence in both himself and his place here is undoubtably shaken. Again."

The last word was accompanied by a sigh of resignation.

"Why? It's not like he burned down the house. It was a _pie_!"

"A pie, sir, that was supposed to show how much he cares for us," the butler stated wisely. "He is nine years old and an orphaned _ward_, sir, who is still trying to find his place. It has been less than a year, Master Bruce, since you took him into your care."

"But he seems well-adjusted," Bruce countered, although his voice was full of uncertainty.

"Master Bruce," Alfred began sternly, "during his first month here he was told nearly every day that you would soon tire of him. By an _adult_, sir! He has been tormented by his peers, attacked by an athlete he admired, kidnapped by his abusive teacher and then _beaten_ by both that man and a professional! If you were in his place, would _you_ feel well-adjusted to a city that has treated you so horribly for most of your time there?! Sir."

"I…guess not."

"I suggest you think about _that_, Master Bruce, before you talk to him tomorrow. Good night, sir."

"Night," Bruce mumbled as they went their separate ways.

"Eight months," the man grumbled as he climbed into bed. "All of that has happened in only eight months. Gotham City at its finest," he ended with a sigh.


	16. Chapter 16

**Several weeks later:**

Dick was sitting by the window in the den, staring out at the pouring rain. Apparently, Bruce and Alfred didn't celebrate Christmas, either. There was no tree, not even a small one like his parents had always put up in their trailer. No bright lights or cheery decorations adorned any part of the mansion, inside or outside.

But Dick wasn't going to say anything. He had already messed up Thanksgiving; he wasn't going to ruin his favorite holiday by asking the men about it.

He could, however, give them each a present. The nine-year-old was almost finished with the one for Bruce and suddenly realized that he would have to work quickly in order to finish Alfred's gift in time.

Turning away from the window, Dick raced to his room and continued to work.

* * *

Dick hadn't gone into the gym for several days, Bruce had noticed. And he seemed distracted when Bruce saw him which, of late, was not very often. The man wondered if something was happening at school again.

Batman had reviewed the tapes from the Bat-camera in Dick's classroom but everything had both looked and sounded normal. Nobody was insulting or mocking the boy and the lessons all consisted of grade-appropriate material.

So, the Caped Crusader had checked the tapes from the school's cameras, also. Sound was weak and somewhat fuzzy so he couldn't hear if things were being said in passing or during lunch. But Dick would tell him, right?

* * *

Christmas was two days away and Dick was panicking. He still hadn't finished Alfred's present, even though he had stayed in his room for three days straight. He came out for meals, of course, but immediately returned to his room after eating.

Dick had noticed the concerned looks that both Bruce and Alfred were constantly sending his way. He felt bad because he knew they were worried that something horrible was going on. But he had pretty much promised to tell them if anything was happening so there was really no need for them to be concerned.

There was a quiet knock on his door.

"Dick?"

It was Bruce, and he sounded troubled.

"Dick, I'm coming in."

The nine-year-old quickly shoved everything under his bed. His bedroom door slowly began to open and Dick jumped to his feet.

"We need to talk, chum," Bruce stated in a no-nonsense voice. "Something is going on and you promised to let us know..."

"Nothing is going on, Bruce," Dick interrupted nervously.

"Is it school again?" the man asked with a sigh.

"No, everything's fine, really! School's fine, home is fine, everything is fine!"

"Then why are you basically hiding from us?" Bruce demanded, although his voice was full of concern – outlined with frustration – instead of anger. "We've hardly seen you this week! What aren't you telling me?!"

"I'm not hiding, I…can you just wait a few days?"

"No," the man replied firmly. "We're doing this now. Whatever it is, now is the time to get it off your chest."

"Please!" the boy practically begged. "Just give me a couple of days and then you'll understand! It's nothing bad, I promise!"

Bruce huffed, annoyed, but decided to ride it out.

"A 'couple' is two, chum. You have two days and then we'll revisit this conversation."

Turning around, the man left, barely hearing the relieved "Thank you" from his young ward. He was perplexed by the boy's strange behavior. At least it would be over in two days.

* * *

**Christmas morning – 4:00:**

"Christmas, Alfred!" Batman yelled as he jumped out of the Batmobile.

The Caped Crusader had just returned from patrol, where he had seen hundreds of people going to and leaving from various parties throughout the city. How, he wondered, had he not realized the significance of the bright lights scattered around every neighborhood?! Lights he had been seeing for over a month!

"Good heavens, Master Batman, you're right!" Alfred exclaimed. "And we've done nothing for the boy!"

Glancing at his Bat-watch, the hero groaned, "Four o'clock Christmas morning. What are we going to do?"

"Apologize profusely and ask for a second chance, sir."

"No wonder he's been so distant these past couple of weeks. Why hasn't he said anything about it?!"

"Well, perhaps he doesn't want a repeat of what occurred at Thanksgiving, Master Batman. Or, since we have neither said nor done anything regarding Christmas, perhaps he thinks we don't celebrate it, sir."

Removing his cowl, Bruce dropped onto the nearest chair and ran a hand through his sweaty hair. How could he have been so stupid? He should have known, especially since he had been seeing obvious signs – lights, decorations, crowds of people – during every nightly patrol.

"We'll work it out with him, Master Bruce. All we can do now is go to bed and hope that he'll forgive us."

Nodding in agreement, Bruce stood up and strode to his Bat-pole. He shot himself up to the Manor and climbed the stairs. As he always did, the man quietly checked on Dick.

"Sorry, chum," he whispered, his tone full of guilt.

Moving on to his own room, Bruce climbed into bed, completely missing the small statue sitting in plain sight on his bedside table.

* * *

**Three hours later:**

Dick silently climbed out of bed, got dressed and crept down the stairs. The present for Alfred he placed on the kitchen counter before sneaking out the back door.

The tall, sturdy oak tree invited Dick into its branches, as it had done several times before this day. He ran and jumped, barely getting enough height to grab the lowest branch. From there it was easy. Dick swiftly climbed about halfway up before settling onto a chair-like cluster of large branches.

He was about thirty feet up and absolutely positive that nobody could hear him. Softly, he began speaking to his parents:

"Merry Christmas, Mom and Dad. I miss you…so much. I guess Bruce and Alfred don't celebrate this holiday, but I made them presents anyway. Thanks for teaching me how to make stuff out of wood. I don't have any money so your talents saved me from having nothing to give them.

They've done so much for me. Ever since you," a soft sob choked his throat and the subsequent pause was long.

"Ever since you guys…" he couldn't say it, "…um, Bruce and Alfred have always been there for me. They are amazing and I wish I could do something to make them proud. I don't know if you'd be proud of me but I'm doing my best to become someone you _could_ be proud of. I don't know if I can get there, but I'm trying.

Don't worry about me, I'm fine. This might not be the best Christmas ever, but at least I'm here and not at the detention center. I love you guys and wish you were here with me. Merry Christmas."

The last two words were whispered and followed by a steady stream of tears.

* * *

Meanwhile, inside stately Wayne Manor:

Bruce's dreams were filled with accusatory glares from his ward. He had forgotten Christmas, of all things! His sleep was restless and he finally gave up at seven thirty.

Sitting up, he turned to climb out of bed. There was a small statue on his bedside table. He picked it up, staring at the wooden figure in awe. It was a carving of Batman, kneeling in front of a child with his hand on the small shoulder. And it was flawless.

The intricate details were amazing – fingers, hair, the twist of the hero's cape, the expression of wonder in the child's eyes, the perfectly shaped bat emblazoned across the man's chest, the sharp outlines of taut muscles, the way the child was slightly leaning into the touch. It looked as if it had been crafted by a master woodworker.

It was obviously a depiction of the moment Dick had first met Batman. And the boy had somehow made it for him without Bruce suspecting anything! Nothing bad had been happening, the nine-year-old was just creating an artistic masterpiece!

Bruce quickly got dressed and almost ran to his ward's bedroom. The door was open and the room empty. Sprinting down the stairs, he burst through the kitchen door, fully expecting to see Dick sitting at the table. Instead, it was Alfred, holding his own little statue and wiping away tears.

"Can I see yours?" Bruce asked tentatively, feeling like he was intruding on a very personal moment.

Alfred willingly held it out and Bruce switched with him. The butler's gift was just as perfectly crafted. It was Alfred, his arms encircling the body of a small child. Again Bruce was amazed by the details – the wrinkles of laughter on both faces, the look of love radiating from two pairs of eyes, the smooth lines of the butler's always-perfectly-pressed clothing, the wisps of the child's hair splayed across the man's chest, the small hands clutching Alfred's coat as if they would never let go.

"This is astonishing," Bruce murmured.

"Did you see the inscription, sir?" Alfred responded softly.

_To Alfred, the most compassionate man I know. DG_

"No, sir, on your carving."

They switched again and Bruce turned his upside down.

_To Bruce, my hero and best friend. DG_

"I don't…where did he learn how to do this?"

"He did spend almost nine years in a circus, Master Bruce," Alfred reminded gently.

Just then the subject of their conversation walked in the back door. He had obviously been crying and guilt filled the hearts of both men like a ball of solid lead. Dick noticed them and immediately began wiping the evidence off his face.

"I'm sorry," Bruce stated softly. "I wasn't thinking, I should have known."

"Known what?" the boy asked, glancing at Alfred before looking at Bruce.

"Christmas, Dick, I didn't even think about it."

"It's not a big deal," the nine-year-old said bravely with a minute shrug. "I figured you don't celebrate this holiday, just like the others. But I decided to get – well, make – you something anyway. I hope that's okay. They're not as good as the ones at the stores but I didn't want to _not_ give you something. Sorry if I messed something up."

"Master Dick, there is nothing to be sorry about!" Alfred exclaimed quietly. "These, young sir, are just as good – if not better – than anything in the stores!"

"It's from you, chum, which makes it better."

"Well, I made a lot of mistakes but I didn't have time to start over so they look kind of sloppy. And I didn't paint them because I wasn't sure…so if you want me to do that I can."

"Dick, this is one of the most amazing things I have ever seen! It looks perfect to me, down to the tiny, last detail. Where did you learn how to do this?"

"Dad," the boy replied.

The men waited for more but Dick didn't elaborate.

"Well, Master Dick, I must say that this is the most special gift I have ever received. I shall cherish it forever, young sir."

Dick dropped his eyes to the floor, blushing at the compliment.

"I echo Alfred's words. Thank you, Dick."

The blush deepened and the men just barely heard the whispered "You're welcome".

"Can we have a second chance?" Bruce asked.

"At what?" Dick asked quizzically, lifting his head.

"Celebrating Christmas, kiddo. We didn't do anything, we didn't buy you…"

"You don't need to get me anything!" Dick interrupted loudly. "You've already given me everything I could need or want and more!"

Both men were astonished that a nine-year-old boy would refuse the offer of a present.

"But…we want to, Dick! You deserve to receive gifts!"

"Sorry, I didn't mean to try to tell you what to do."

"You don't need to apologize for stating how you feel or what you think, Master Dick."

The boy suddenly crumpled to the ground, dropped his head into his hands, and began sobbing. Bruce and Alfred glanced at each other, then Bruce went and sat down by his ward.

"Will it…will it ever…get better?" Dick asked between sobs. "I…I miss them. Does it…ever stop…hurting?"

Bruce knew the answer but didn't want to bring more pain to the heart of the grief-stricken child. However, Dick deserved to know.

"No, chum, it doesn't stop hurting," he answered softly. "But it does become easier to live with, after a while. It helps to remember the happy times."

"I'm…I tried that…today. It _doesn't_ help…it hurts more!"

"I'm sorry, kiddo, I wish there was something I could do."

Dick suddenly threw himself onto his guardian's lap and wrapped his strong arms around the man's neck. Bruce immediately felt the tears soaking his shirt but he didn't care. He folded his arms around the small torso and whispered another apology.

"Why me? Why _us_?" the boy mumbled despairingly.

"I don't know," Bruce murmured, feeling helpless.

The man had never seen his ward so broken. Dick was always so cheerful, so strong. Even on the bad days he did his best to smile through the grief Bruce could see in his eyes.

It was at that moment that Batman made finding the murderer his top priority. He had always been researching and observing and listening while out on patrol but something major was almost always happening. A villain would escape, or there would be a mob war, or a new and sometimes powerful gang would begin to grow. And Batman had no clues because, on _that_ night, Bruce Wayne had been focused on the newly-orphaned Dick Grayson.

Bruce suddenly realized that Dick had cried himself to sleep. The man slowly stood up and exited the kitchen, heading for the boy's room. As he began to carefully disentangle himself in order to lay his ward on the bed, he felt Dick's grip tighten around his neck.

"Please don't leave," the nine-year-old mumbled sleepily. "Everybody always leaves."

Dick's tear-filled plea nearly tore Bruce's heart in half. Without a second thought, he climbed into the bed and allowed the boy to cuddle up to him.

"We can get through this, chum," Bruce murmured.

He stared down at the tear-streaked face and wished he could wipe away the anguish etched on the young features. But he knew that was impossible. All he could do was find the killer and bring him to justice. And if the man arrived at Police Headquarters a little worse for wear, well…perhaps that was part of justice, this time.


	17. Chapter 17

Note: Thanks for the comment, Rollerparty!

* * *

**One month later:**

Joker had escaped, then Riddler, then Penguin and Mad Hatter together, and then Joker again. Batman's top priority had, unfortunately, dropped down the list. The villains were taking up all his time and he still didn't have even the tiniest clue. Until, suddenly, he did.

It was during a normal nightly patrol. Batman had taken out several muggers and prevented two murders. He was in the process of leaving a crime scene when he heard two words: Flying Graysons.

The voices discussing the performers were coming from an open window at the other end of the alley. Batman had never sprinted as quietly as he did at that moment.

"Yeah, said it was the same gun. Don't know if I believe him, though. Seems like it would be pretty hot right now. Been less than a year, right?"

"Where did he stash it for so long? How did he even get away with it?!"

"Apparently Batman wasn't there and everyone else was trying to help the kid. Mason said he just shot and ran. Said nobody followed him. And said he hasn't ever been worried about being caught!"

Batman clenched his jaw, feeling both guilty and angry. The killer wasn't even worried. Well, he – Mason, the man had said – was going to be very worried soon.

The Caped Crusader leapt through the open window, startling the two men inside. One of them sprinted toward the door while the other one fainted out of fear. Rolling his eyes at the latter man, Batman raced toward the former, easily catching up and tackling him.

"What do you want?" the man demanded.

He was on the hard floor, on his stomach with his left cheek crushed against the wood. Batman had him pinned down, his knee on the man's lower back and his hands firmly clasped around the man's wrists.

"You aren't really in a position to demand answers from me," the hero growled. "I, however, am. Who is Mason and where is he?"

"I don't know," the man growled back. "I just heard about it. Logan over there is the one who told me. Ask him."

Whipping out his Bat-cuffs, the Caped Crusader snapped them around the man's wrists and stood up. He strode to the other prone body, knelt down, and slapped him across the face. Hard.

"Wake up!" he commanded.

"Huh, what, who…" the man responded groggily.

"Where is Mason?!"

"Ba…Bat…Bahhh!" the man screamed before passing out again.

"Idiot," the Caped Crusader growled.

He grabbed the can of Bat-awake out of his utility belt and sprayed a very generous amount in Logan's face.

"_MASON_!" Batman thundered as the man opened his eyes again.

"I didn't do it! I only heard it!" Logan exclaimed. "He was bragging, I didn't even talk to him! Please don't beat me up," he whimpered.

"Then tell me _WHERE HE IS_!" Batman roared.

"I only know he's a janitor at Wayne Enterprises!"

Batman's eyes widened imperceptibly. The man who had murdered Dick's parents had been right under his nose this entire time?!

"Why did he do it?" the hero snarled.

"I don't know, ask him!" Logan exclaimed again.

Batman raised his arm and Logan, expecting to be hit, yelped, "He works nights! Every night!"

"How do you know?" Batman snapped after glancing at his Bat-watch.

"I work at Sally's place, he's a regular. You…know about her place, right?"

With a short nod, the hero grumbled, "Widow of a mob boss, hangout for potential henchmen and people guilty of unprovable crimes."

_Small fish that aren't priorities unless everything else is quiet._

"He's there almost every night. And I heard him bragging about it with my own ears!"

"When?"

"Last night, at Sally's, right before he went to work!"

"You've been helpful," the Caped Crusader stated suspiciously, "_if_ this all proves to be true. If, however, you're trying to throw me off-track by lying, rest assured that I will find you. I don't like it when people _lie_ to me."

"No, it's true, I swear, that's everything I know!"

Without another word, Batman stood up and walked back to the other man. He quickly retrieved his Bat-cuffs off that man's wrists then strode to the window and climbed out. Sprinting again, he flew through the alley and back to the Batmobile, where he climbed in and headed for Wayne Enterprises.

* * *

**Wayne Enterprises – twenty minutes later:**

The guard at the front desk had just completed his rounds for the second time when Batman showed up. Without hesitation, the man unlocked and opened the door.

"I need to see Mason, the janitor," the Caped Crusader snapped.

Nodding, the guard quickly typed something then stared at the screen in surprise.

"Scheduled to work but called in sick," the man reported. "He's _never_ called in sick!"

"How long has he been working here?"

"I'd say nigh on ten years now."

"Has he ever been in any trouble?"

"Not that I know of, Batman. Is he now?"

"I just want to talk to him. Address," the hero commanded.

"He moves around a lot, hasn't updated his address in a while, though. I'm not supposed to give this information but you're _Batman_, so…"

"I understand, just tell me!" he demanded impatiently.

"Last known is 1232 Bakers Lane, down by Crime Alley. Don't know why, seems like a straight-laced guy. But, houses aren't cheap so…"

The guard trailed off, realizing that Batman was already gone.

* * *

**1232 Bakers Lane – fifteen minutes later:**

"Mason Lipkins?"

The old woman who opened the door for Batman was emphatically shaking her head.

"He hasn't lived here for over seven months now. Paid rent on time, every time, one of the best renters I've had. And he has a good job at Wayne Enterprises. I don't know why he moved. I also don't know why you're standing at my front door at two in the morning asking about him! Can't help, sorry!"

She practically slammed the door shut before Batman could reply.

"Now what?" he grumbled quietly. "I'm back to where I started. At least I know the man's name: Mason Lipkins."

* * *

**Two weeks later:**

He had staked out Wayne Enterprises almost every night for two weeks. But the only people Batman saw were the twenty security guards and eighteen janitors – none of which had been identified as Mason Lipkins.

The last person to arrive, without fail, was the guard at the front desk. His daytime counterpart always left the building with a frown on his face. Batman had caught up to him one night and all the man had done was complain about the night guard's continual tardiness.

However, two sentences had captured the Caped Crusader's attention:

"He's been doing it for almost a month! It's weird, because for fifteen years he's been obsessed with punctuality and now he's just…not."

It was a Friday, and Batman decided it was time to talk to the tardy guard as soon as he arrived. But…he never did. A different man, who was on time, took over the front desk. Batman, standing in the shadows by the entrance, was puzzled.

Suddenly, a shot rang out and Batman felt the familiar trail of fire that meant he had been grazed by a bullet. It flew across his left shoulder and, before he could react, a second one landed squarely in his left tricep. Whirling toward the sound of the gun, Batman was shocked to see the normally-tardy night guard holding a fully-automatic machine pistol.

"I could have kept going and you'd be dead right now. But, I hear you've been looking for me and I want to know why."

Batman was both stunned and furious. He had allowed himself to be caught off-guard, too consumed by his thoughts to be aware of the danger behind him. And the man was right; he should be dead right now.

"You're speechless," the man commented. "I knew you weren't the energetic, chatty type but I didn't know you could be rendered speechless."

"Mason Lipkins," the Caped Crusader growled.

"At your service," the man said with a mock bow. "Now," he frowned, "what do you want with me?"

"The Flying Graysons."

"Who?" Mason asked with a smirk.

"You killed them."

"So what if I did, not that I'm saying I did. Why does that matter to you?"

"You're a criminal, I'm a crime-fighter."

"Hmmmm, am I, though?"

"You just shot a duly-deputized agent of the law. So, yes, you are," Batman retorted furiously.

He suddenly remembered that there was a bullet in his arm. Without removing his eyes from Mason's face, the Caped Crusader pulled the roll of Bat-wrap out of his utility belt. Quickly, he wrapped the wound and returned the Bat-wrap to its pocket.

"Well, I suppose that's true. But, why does that make you think I killed those misfits from the circus?"

"I have my reasons."

"Whatever those reasons are, they're wrong. I may or may not have supplied the gun," he twirled his weapon around his hand before pointing it at Batman again, "but I didn't do the shooting."

"Then who?" the hero demanded. "Tell me and I won't beat you to pieces before taking you to Police Headquarters."

"Are you really the one that should be making threats?" Mason countered calmly. "I've got a fully-automatic Glock 18 pointed at your chest. At least one of the thirty bullets will kill you so you're at a definite disadvantage."

"Not anymore."

Batman, as he had returned the Bat-wrap to his utility belt, had unobtrusively snatched a Bat-a-rang. The weapon was now flying through the air. Before Mason could pull the trigger, the gun was ripped from his hand. As it clattered to the ground, the Caped Crusader – having also grabbed his Bat-laser – aimed and fired. The Glock exploded and Mason, who was trying to stop the blood leaking from his injured hand, turned around and attempted to flee.

Batman immediately tackled him. He flipped the criminal over and put his hands on the man's shoulders, pushing them onto the hard asphalt of the street.

"WHO. KILLED. THEM."

It was a demand, not a question, and suddenly Mason was terrified for his life.

"I only…only sup…supplied the…the gun," he stammered.

"That's not what I need," Batman replied darkly. "And I've been informed that Mason 'shot and ran', like the cowardly rat that you are."

"Whoever gave you that information is wrong! I said 'he' shot and ran! The guy said his name was Mack!"

"Where can I find him?"

"Ask the kid. He sees him every day."

"What kid?" Batman growled, desperately hoping that he was wrong about the name that had instantly jumped into his mind.

"The kid, _their_ kid, I don't know his name!"

"Who is 'their'?"

"The circus…the ones Mack shot at. Grayson!"

"Of course," Batman breathed angrily.

"What?"

Of course the person who knew the killer would be the same person whose parents had died because of that killer. How was he going to ask Dick about _this_?!

Mason was now quietly pleading for leniency.

"Right," Batman snapped sarcastically. "I'm going to let you go after you admitted to both supplying the gun that led to a murder _and_ shot me!"

Yanking the man to his feet, the Caped Crusader whipped out his Bat-cuffs and slapped them around Mason's wrists. A punch to the chest and an uppercut later, Batman dragged the now-unconscious man to the front door of Wayne Enterprises. The new guard was surprised to see the hero but, upon hearing the Caped Crusader's story, he agreed to keep Mason until the police arrived to pick him up.

Batman strode to the Batmobile, climbed in and headed home. He explained what he had learned to Alfred while the butler attended to his wounds.

"I've never heard the name 'Mack', Master Batman. If Master Dick knows him, the man is obviously not important enough for us to know about."

"I'm not looking forward to this conversation," Batman sighed as he removed his cowl. "How am I going to get the information without Dick figuring out why I'm asking?"

"You'll find a way, sir. You always do."

* * *

**The next day:**

Bruce had been trying to find a way to bring up the subject of Mack. But, since Dick had never even mentioned the name, there was no logical reason for Bruce to pose a question about him. However, Batman needed the information if he was going to bring the killer to justice.

"Why do you keep staring at me?" Dick asked.

There were in the living room, where Bruce was pretending to read a book while Dick was playing Solitaire with a new deck of cards.

"Seriously," the boy continued, "you haven't turned the page since you opened the book. And that was ten minutes ago."

"How is everything at school, chum?"

"Great, but that's not why you're staring at me. You're not glaring, which means you're not worried. You keep sighing, which means you feel like we have to talk about something that could be important but you don't really want to. And you're staring, not just glancing over once in a while. That means you want me to somehow read your mind and start the conversation for you."

Dirk smirked when Bruce's eyes widened in astonishment. The boy, after less than a year, could read the man's body language and expressions perfectly!

"How do you do that?" Bruce asked.

Shrugging, Dick replied, "I'm observant. But that doesn't mean I can read your mind. You have to at least tell me the topic if you want to discuss something."

"Right. So, anything new at school? Teachers, students, friends, bullies, uh, anything?"

"Nope, nope, nope, thankfully nope and I don't know what you mean by 'anything' because that's a very vague way to put it. I passed out of my math book…that's new!"

"Again?!" Bruce exclaimed, pride evident in his tone. "That's the second one, right?"

"Yep!" Dick replied happily. "They won't let me start the sixth grade one, though, so my teacher is just giving me a bunch of worksheets and packets. It's just busy work."

"Why won't they let you move on?"

"Mr. Mack doesn't have time to tutor me. I guess lots of kids in fourth and fifth grade need help with math. But if they would at least let me _try_ it, maybe I wouldn't need tutoring."

"Mr. Mack is a tutor?"

"Not just 'a' tutor, THE tutor. He's a genius! And he was an acrobat but decided to go into teaching instead of traveling around in a circus. He showed me some stuff on the rope in PE; he's really good!"

So, Mack was a former acrobat. Batman now had several plausible motives for the murder. First, the man wanted to fly but, for some reason, couldn't. Second, he couldn't cut it in a circus so was jealous of any performers. Third, he was specifically jealous of the Flying Graysons. Fourth, he had also been an aerialist but the Flying Graysons had beaten him at the audition for Haly's Circus.

"Better than you?" Bruce asked.

"Well, yeah, because I'm really bad at the rope. But that's all he showed me so I don't know about anything else."

_Were your parents good at the rope?_

That was Batman's thought, but he wasn't going to ask it. Dick didn't need to be reminded of something like that. But, the boy answered the unasked question anyway.

"Mom and Dad were good at that, too. I wonder if they ever met."

"Has he ever talked about being in a circus?"

"Not to me, but I overheard him telling Dirk that he had dreamed about it when he was growing up. They were talking about Michael," Dick shuddered at the name, "and his talents."

"Interesting," Bruce murmured.

"Why?" Dick asked quizzically.

"Uh, I just like to know who you interact with at school," Bruce quickly responded. "After what happened…" he trailed off, mentally calling himself an idiot for mentioning that particular subject.

"Are you not over it?" Dick asked. "Do you hate him?"

"No, I mean, yes, of course I'm over it. And, yes, I ha…well, really dislike him."

"Oh."

_Oh? That's all you have to say?!_

"Are you?" Bruce asked softly, slightly concerned with the one-word answer.

"Um, yeah, of course!" Dick echoed his guardian's words.

"It's okay to _not_ be over it, chum. You went through a lot."

Dick chewed his bottom lip for a moment, an indication that he had something to say but didn't know how to say it.

"It was a long time ago, so it's no big deal. I mean, it's not like he crippled me or killed me or anything really drastic, right? Just some bruises and broken…"

This time it was the nine-year-old who trailed off. The silence was awkward and slightly tense. Bruce was trying to figure out what to say and Dick was struggling to keep himself from breaking down.

"It's over, I'm done!" the boy suddenly yelled. "This is stupid and I don't want to talk about it or him ever again. So just…just shut up!"

Bruce widened his eyes in surprise. Dick had never spoken to him like this. And he had certainly never told him to shut up.

Dick noticed the expression and violently shook his head.

"Not you!" he continued shouting. "Not you, of course not you! He's always in here," Dick jammed a finger at his head, "and I can't…I don't know how to get rid of him! It's stupid, this whole thing is stupid, I can't do it anymore, maybe I should have just died with them!"

"Nononono, Dick, you don't mean that," Bruce stated, attempting to remain calm. "I can help…there must be something I can do! I can find you a counselor, or…"

"I'm sorry," Dick softly interrupted. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"I don't care about that, kiddo. If it helps, do it. You're upset and frustrated and angry. I go beat things up when that happens to me. Let's go to the gym."

"Okay," Dick agreed, his face brightening a little. "I'm going to beat him to a pulp, like Batman does!"

"Um, yeah, but only because it's just a punching dummy."

"But Batman does it to real people."

"He…shouldn't," Bruce admitted. "I, um, he's going to work on that."

Dick actually laughed before stating, "No, he's not!"

They were now in the gym. Dick, without hesitation, ran at one of the punching dummies and began pummeling it. Three and a half minutes later, Bruce was staring at an armless dummy with a hole in its torso.

"You've got some power, kiddo," he commented with a chuckle.

"Oh, sorry!" a slightly-out-of-breath Dick replied. "I didn't…I wasn't paying attention! Do you think Alfred will teach me how to fix it?"

"No need, chum, we have a lot more."

"I feel better."

"Good. You can come do this anytime you want."

Bruce didn't know it, but Dick took the word 'anytime' very literally. The next night Bruce, after returning from patrol, found his ward in the gym. It was two in the morning and one dummy was already lying broken on the floor while a second one had small fists slamming into its torso.

"Dick, time for bed," Bruce sighed. "I meant anytime during the day. You can't be down here when you're supposed to be sleeping."

"Okay, sorry," Dick replied.

He raced out of the gym and was in bed before Bruce even made it up the stairs. That night there was no screaming or crying and the boy didn't look even remotely tired when he came down for breakfast.


	18. Chapter 18

**The next week:**

"Field day is tomorrow, Bruce. Are you coming?"

"Of course, chum!"

"Good, because at the end, the top two in each event get to compete against a teacher! If I win tumbling, I'm asking for Mr. Mack!" Dick finished excitedly.

"If?" Bruce asked with raised eyebrows.

"It's the last event," Dick explained. "Anything could happen. I could get hurt going over the hurdles or something!"

"How many events are you in?"

Dick thought for a moment and then proudly declared, "Fifty-yard dash, hurdles, long jump, mile run, tumbling and discus."

With astonishment in his voice, Bruce asked, "Are there any events you're _not_ in?!"

"Of course!" Dick exclaimed, shaking his head in exasperation. "Hula hoop and jump rope!"

"Right, of course," Bruce responded in amusement. "How do they decide who competes in each event?"

"The PE teachers choose. There are seven or eight in each running event, only six in discus and like fifteen in hula hoop and jump rope. I don't know about tumbling. I'm kind of nervous about discus; I don't know why they chose me. And sometimes I hit the hurdles so that one worries me, too."

"I'm sure you'll be fine, chum. Just do your best."

* * *

**The next day:**

It was sunny but cool, the perfect weather for an elementary school field day. Dick woke up with a slight fever, but didn't feel sick enough to tell Bruce or Alfred and have to miss field day. So, off they all went to school. Dick was sweating by the time they arrived so he quickly left the men and found a spot to stretch.

"Bruce?"

The millionaire turned toward the surprised voice. It belonged to James Perkins, father of one of the best basketball players in the city. Max, the boy, had almost single-handedly carried Gotham to the state championship, where they had lost by one point on a ticky-tack foul call.

"What are _you_ doing here?"

"Dick is competing in several events," Bruce replied. "I'm here to support him, of course."

"He is?"

Somehow the level of surprise in the man's voice increased. Bruce internally growled. James knew nothing about Dick and Max had obviously downplayed the boy's abilities.

"Yes," Bruce stated stiffly. "Six, in fact."

"Oh, well, they must be taking more this year," James commented foolishly.

"What makes you say that?" Bruce demanded, his jaw clenched in anger.

"Max says Dick is kind of…well, awkward," James responded, either ignoring or completely missing the irritation in Bruce's voice. "Well, good luck!" he stated with a shrug before walking away.

The tension radiating from Bruce was palpable and the resentment in his eyes was obvious. Why couldn't people just see what Dick was capable of before passing judgement?

"Ignore him, Master Bruce," Alfred said calmly. "He doesn't know Master Dick, sir, and his son is, apparently, an idiot."

Bruce grinned and relaxed as he sat down. He looked over to where Dick was sitting. Something wasn't right, he instantly recognized that fact. The boy was sitting in a stretching position but rubbing his temples and wiping the sweat off his glistening forehead.

"He shouldn't be sweating yet, he hasn't done anything," Bruce murmured.

"Did you say something, Master Bruce?"

Ignoring his butler's question, the millionaire stood up, intending to go check on the nine-year-old. But, at that exact moment, Principal Maizer announced that field day had officially started. The discus competitors were called up first. Bruce watched his ward's body sway minutely when he got up to join the other athletes.

"Down in front!" someone yelled and Alfred gently pulled his charge down.

Dick was up first and his throw was weak. Some of the parents quietly snickered but immediately stopped upon receiving a withering glare from Bruce Wayne. Dick finished last in that event and the disappointment was evident on his face. Field day wasn't starting out the way he had envisioned. Max, of course, won the event.

The mile run was next and Dick barely made it across the finish line in fifth place. He kept shaking his head and rolling his shoulders, as if trying to rid himself of some sort of ache.

"Something is wrong, sir," Alfred whispered in his ear.

Nodding, Bruce stood up again and made his way out of the spectator area. Jump rope was next so Dick was resting in the shade of a big oak tree. He was leaning against the trunk with his eyes closed.

"Dick," Bruce said softly as he crouched down in front of the boy. "What's going on?"

The nine-year-old opened his eyes and mumbled, "I'm bad at throwing and long distance running."

He looked rather pale so Bruce touched his forehead and immediately frowned.

"You're burning up, chum!" he exclaimed quietly. "We need to get you home."

"No, please, I have to beat Max at _something_! I beat him in PE every time but he always says he's not trying his best. I brought some medicine, I'll be fine!"

Dick pulled a Children's Tylenol chewable out of his pocket and popped it in his mouth. Long jump was announced and the boy stood up.

"No," Bruce said firmly.

"Please?" Dick begged. "I'll skip long jump so the medicine can start working!"

"You still have hurdles, the fifty-yard dash, and tumbling!" Bruce exclaimed.

"Hula hoop is in between the first two and I can tumble in my sleep!"

Bruce, against his better judgement, decided to agree on one condition.

"If you feel even a little bit dizzy, you're done. I trust you, Dick, so give me your word."

"I promise if I start to feel dizzy I'll be done."

Sighing, Bruce ruffled his ward's sweaty hair and said, "Good luck. And remember your promise."

Dick beamed at him then walked away. Long jump was nearly over; Dick had been scratched from the event.

"Hurdles," Principal Maizer announced.

Max was already at the starting line, fresh off his long jump victory.

"I'm not holding back this time," he taunted as Dick lined up beside him.

"Neither am I," Dick replied with a shrug.

The whistle blew and the boys took off. It was instantly a race between Dick and Max. Dick was ahead by one hurdle when his back leg crashed into it. Max's father yelled in delight as his son made it over cleanly. To everyone's surprise – including Bruce and Alfred – Dick tucked into a forward roll, popped up and continued running. Max, expecting an easy victory, pulled up slightly to save himself for the next event. Dick blazed past him and won by a full two yards.

Turning around, Dick stuck his hand out, expecting Max to be a good sport and shake it. Max, however, completely ignored the gesture and walked away. Bruce, seeing the scowls on the faces of both the father and the son, grinned.

"Master Bruce," Alfred chided, "a young boy with a fever should not even be out there and you should not be a sore winner."

"I smiled, Alfred! Dick won so I smiled!"

"I know that gleam in your eyes, Master Bruce. You are already thinking about how you are going to put Mr. Perkins in his place, sir. You would do well to remember that Master Dick has but one victory, while Max has three."

Bruce grumbled something indistinguishable. Conversation over, they turned back to the competition, where the athletes were lining up for the fifty-yard dash.

Having seen many of the same competitors in the hurdles, most people already knew who would take the top two spots. The only question was who would win.

It turned out to be no contest. Dick both started and ended in first place. Max wasn't even close. The PE teacher keeping time raised his eyebrows in disbelief when Dick crossed the finish line.

Bruce's grin grew and Alfred nearly rolled his eyes. Max had still come out on top, having already won three events prior to his lapse in judgement on the hurdles. Both Bruce and Alfred were surprised when Dick lined up behind none other than Max for the tumbling competition. Was there anything Max _couldn't_ do?

As it turned out, yes. The PE teachers had been desperate for competitors in this event. They had Max in because he was one of their best athletes and nobody else could do more than a cartwheel. Max had a pretty solid standing back handspring, so into the competition he went.

Bruce quietly chuckled when he saw Max do his one trick. He half-hoped Dick would show off with some kind of complicated pass. But, he knew that his ward wasn't one to show off. So, Dick's simple round-off, back handspring, back layout didn't really surprise him. That was probably something Dick had learned when he was three or four, although Bruce was sure that nobody else knew that fact.

Then it was teachers against the top two students in each event. Everyone, including the younger competitors, knew the teachers were going to win. Dick, surprising every single person watching, almost beat the man running the fifty-yard dash. He lost by a stride, his much shorter legs betraying him at the end.

"I knew he was fast but not _that_ fast!" Bruce commented.

"Indeed, Master Bruce," Alfred agreed.

Max flat-out refused to compete in the tumbling contest. When Mr. Mack stepped up, Bruce narrowed his eyes. This was going to be interesting.

The man had the lean but firm build of an acrobat. And he didn't disappoint. Bruce actually wasn't sure if Dick would be able to beat the pass: round-off, back handspring, full twisting whip, two more back handsprings and a triple twisting layout.

People had been gasping with each new trick thrown out. By the time Mr. Mack was finished, Dick was staring at him in admiration.

Bruce was suddenly nervous but wasn't sure why. It was just a friendly competition at an elementary school field day. Dick had a fever, so Bruce decided he was worried about the boy getting hurt.

Dick took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He had assumed Mr. Mack was good but hadn't expected him to be amazing. Tossing his planned tumbling pass out of his mind, the nine-year-old quickly came up with a new one and opened his eyes. He took one more deep breath and then began running.

He began the same way as the tutor but the similarity ended there: round-off, back handspring, full twisting whip, one and a half twisting layout to end facing forward, front handspring, front tuck step out, round-off, back handspring into a double twisting layout.

Nobody moved and it was completely silent for several seconds after Dick landed. Everyone was leaning forward, expecting more from the boy who was obviously born to tumble. The silence unnerved the nine-year-old; he thought he had done something wrong.

Dropping his head, Dick began rubbing his temples again. Then he bent over and rested his hands on his knees, attempting to stop the trembling of his now-aching muscles and joints.

That was when the cheering began. It was also when Bruce shook himself out of his awe-induced stupor and sprinted to his ward's side. He helped Dick sit down and Alfred appeared with a bottle of water.

"That was rather impressive, Master Dick," Alfred commented softly.

Dick mumbled something unintelligible in response.

Bruce, out of the corner of his eye, noticed Mr. Mack. His face was outlined with anger even as he cheered and clapped along with everyone else.

Four teachers had formed a small circle around Bruce, Dick and Alfred. They were keeping everyone away and Bruce was grateful for the breathing space it afforded Dick.

The nine-year-old had grabbed the water bottle and taken a quick drink. He was now pouring the rest over his head, attempting to cool his body. His hands were shaking slightly and his breathing was rather shallow.

"I'm, um, ready to go home now," he whispered groggily.

"Is he okay, Mr. Wayne?"

The concerned voice of Principal Maizer broke the near-silence inside the small circle.

"He will be," Bruce replied. "He has a fever, I'm going to take him home."

"Of course," the principal agreed. "We'll have his awards for him when he returns to school. Hopefully he recovers quickly."

"Thank you," Bruce nodded as he helped Dick stand up.

As they turned to leave, the millionaire glanced at Mr. Mack one more time. The man's hands were clenched into fists and his entire body was trembling. Batman assumed, from the now-semi-murderous look on Mack's face, that he had just found the person responsible for the deaths of two-thirds of the Flying Graysons.

* * *

**One week later:**

Since Mr. Mack tutored all the fourth and fifth graders, Batman had decided to put a Bat-camera in every one of those classrooms. Dick was right – a lot of the kids needed support. The tutor only helped with math but he was kept busy all day. He did one-on-ones, he did small groups and sometimes he just walked around the classrooms, checking answers and correcting when necessary.

He treated everyone the same and seemed to have an endless amount of patience. Sometimes, Mr. Mack would even crouch in front of the ever-studious Dick Grayson and ask about his day, or week, or what new trick the boy was perfecting in the gym at Wayne Manor.

So, why had he seemed so angry on field day? Dick had obviously won the competition but the man didn't seem to be holding a grudge. Perhaps Batman had the wrong Mack after all.

And then, on day seven of observing the classrooms, Batman saw it. The change was so minute that he wasn't even mad at himself for not seeing it before. Every time Mr. Mack said something about tricks, or acrobatics, or the equipment in Wayne Manor, Dick's body would stiffen. He would immediately relax and his expression never changed. There were no grimaces or winces or flinches or any other signs of the boy attempting to cover some sort of pain. It was as if he didn't even notice the change in his own body when it happened.

And Batman couldn't figure it out. Mr. Mack always went down to Dick's level and his hands were always in plain sight. He couldn't do anything with his legs from his crouching position. All he ever did was talk to Dick, and his expression was always friendly.

Batman had called on the services of Alfred, who couldn't find anything, either. They had watched the tapes in real time, in slow motion, and even using a magnifying glass. But they always saw the same thing: nothing.

So, Batman decided to go to the source – well, the source who was affected by it. Wednesdays were early release at school and, this time, for Bruce Wayne as well.

"How are you feeling, chum?" Bruce asked when he found Dick taking a break in the gym.

"Good!" Dick exclaimed. Then he tilted his head, looked at Bruce suspiciously, and asked, "Why?"

"Are you having trouble in any subject?" the man inquired casually, ignoring Dick's question. "Science, English, _math_?"

"Bruce, why would you think I'm having trouble in _math_?"

Now the boy's tone was wary, as if he was expecting some sort of outburst.

"Are you mad about something?" he continued. "Upset, frustrated, furious…anything?"

"No, kiddo, just checking in. That's something I'm supposed to do, right?"

The questions and answers were too flippant for Dick's liking. Bruce had never 'checked in' at a seemingly random time. Only when he was worried or suspicious. Obviously, something was bothering him.

"Why are you lying to me?" the nine-year-old asked.

"What?! I'm not…" Bruce trailed off, flustered.

They both knew he was; it was foolish to try to deny it.

"Why did you emphasize math? I told you last week that all I have is busy work."

"Does Mr. Mack ever tutor you?"

"Gosh no, Bruce, why would he? I'm two grades ahead and not allowed to go on!"

"Yes, of course. Does he ever talk to you?"

"You seriously think that I don't see the Bat-cameras?!" Dick asked incredulously. "That's a question you already know the answer to. Why are you suddenly fixated on Mr. Mack?"

"When he's talking to you, do you ever feel…different?"

"You're ignoring my questions."

"Just answer the question!" Bruce commanded.

"Okay, sorry!" Dick exclaimed quietly. "I don't know what kind of 'different' you mean. Sometimes when we talk about our similar acrobatic backgrounds, I get a little sad. When we talk about learning new tricks, that's exciting. Those are different."

Dick was very confused. He had no idea where his guardian was going with this line of questioning. For some reason, Bruce was intently focused on the math tutor, one of the nicest men Dick had ever met.

Bruce sighed, unsure about what he was thinking. Should he tell Dick about Mack's behavior on field day? Should he tell him that every time the tutor talked to him, there was a small but definite change in the boy's body language?

"Bruce, what's going on?" Dick asked timidly. "Am I doing something wrong? Should I not be taking up his time since he's supposed to be tutoring people who actually need help? Are you mad at me?"

Bruce sighed again before stating, "I want to show you something. Meet me downstairs."

Dick nodded and headed for the service elevator while Bruce strode to his study. He wanted to be the less emotional Batman for this conversation.

Two minutes later, they were in the Batcave, standing by the Bat-camera Receiving Machine and waiting for a tape to rewind. Batman played a ninety-second conversation between Dick and Mack, his eyes carefully watching his ward.

"We're talking about double backs," Dick stated with a shrug. "What does that have to do with anything?"

"This time I want you to watch instead of listen. Specifically, yourself."

He played it again and Dick, completely baffled, said, "I smiled."

"Okay," Batman growled, "more specifically, your torso."

"I don't see anything, Batman!"

"Look closer!" the Caped Crusader demanded.

Dick glanced at Batman when he heard the tone. Obviously, he was supposed to see something he was doing. But he didn't, and Batman was frustrated with him. And that frustrated Dick.

"Master Batman, need I remind you that it took _you_ seven days to see it, sir?"

"_See what?!_" Dick shouted.

Batman growled and decided to play it in slow motion. He almost pushed his ward closer to the screen.

"Watch. Your. Torso!"

_This time he __**is**__ mad at me. What the heck am I looking for?!_

For ten minutes they stood there, Dick staring at the screen from several different angles and occasionally sighing in frustration while Batman nearly glared at the boy. Dick began rubbing his eyes and Alfred decided to intervene.

"Sir, perhaps you should tell him what you see."

"Fine," the hero growled. "Every time he talks about anything to do with acrobatics, you stiffen as if it affects you in some way."

Dick stared at him in surprised then turned back to the machine.

"Play it again," he demanded.

He still missed it but, twelve replays and four pauses to rub his eyes later, Dick finally noticed it.

"Why can't I feel this?" he demanded, his eyes narrowed in something akin to anger. "How do I not know this is happening? And why haven't you mentioned it to me? And _why_ is it happening?"

Dick was glaring at Batman and both men were slightly stunned with the expression. It looked like a younger version of the Bat-glare.

"I don't know, I don't know, I didn't want to…" Batman paused then quickly continued, "…worry you and I don't know."

'Worry' was a substitute for 'I don't want you to know that this man might have killed your parents', but Dick didn't need to know that.

"You didn't want to _worry_ me?!"" Dick asked in disbelief. "Great idea, Batman. Hey, let's not tell Dick that something happens to him every time Mr. Mack talks to him!" he yelled sarcastically. "Let's allow it to continue instead of telling him so he can help us figure it out! Who cares if he is brainwashed or something, right?! _Why should it matter to him?!_"

"Brainwashed?" Batman murmured, realizing he hadn't even thought of that.

Throwing his arms in the air, Dick muttered, "Thanks for ignoring me," before turning around and stomping away.

"But…how?" Batman continued murmuring. "We haven't seen anything to indicate that."

"We also, sir, didn't have Bat-cameras in classrooms until _after_ the school year had already begun."

"You're right, it must have happened before I installed the Bat-cameras. But still, how?"

"Perhaps it was something that was covered by the injuries he received from his abuser, Master Batman. Something small that he didn't even notice because of his troubles with Mr. Jerkins, sir."

"Then even he wouldn't know how. Or why, or when it started."

"A very astute observation, sir," Alfred stated drily. "And now it's a pre-programmed response. How are you going to stop it?"

"I have no idea."

"Well, now I know why my thumb was always aching."

Dick had been wandering around the Bat-cave, deep in thought. His sudden appearance caught the men by surprise, as did the revelation.

"I just thought it was part of…but my hands were never, um, hit," he whispered the last word. "And everything else hurt more so…"

The nine-year-old was staring at his left thumb and moving it around.

"Does it ever hurt now? When he talks to you, I mean."

"I don't know, it's not something I pay attention to."

"How did you not notice that something was happening to your thumb?!" Batman exclaimed irritably.

"Gee, I don't know, Batman," Dick snapped sarcastically, glaring at his guardian again. "Maybe it's because I was too scared of Mr. Jerkins, or too worried about _you_! Or maybe it's because my torso hurt a lot so a little ache in my thumb didn't really matter! Maybe it's because I was always seeing you lying on the ground in a _POOL OF YOUR OWN BLOOD_!"

"Okay, chum, calm down. I didn't mean it how it sounded," Batman said softly.

"Sorry," Dick stated, a large amount of frustration in his voice. "I shouldn't have yelled at you."

"Master Dick, as we've told you before, you have no need to apologize for stating how you feel. Even if you do it a bit…louder…than normal, young sir."

"I guess I should pay attention to it, now that we know."

"We don't know for sure it that's what happened. But, yes, try to pay attention. If you don't feel anything, don't get mad at yourself. It's been going on for several months, if that's what it is, and you haven't noticed it. Don't be hard on yourself, okay?"

"Okay," Dick mumbled. "But I should have known."

"Why, Master Dick, do you think you should have known something like this?"

"Because he's _always_ been nice. I should have known that nobody at school could ever be _always_ nice," he sighed with a shrug. "But…why me? What did I do that made him want to brainwash, or whatever, me?"

_You lived._

Batman and Alfred had the same thought, and knew it when they looked at each other.

_You need to tell him, sir._

_No, there's no point. And what if I'm wrong?_

_He deserves to know, sir._

_Later. After we figure this out._

Alfred stared at Bruce skeptically, one eyebrow raised in disbelief.

_I promise._

"Are you guys having a staring contest or can you read each other's minds?"

Dick was watching two pairs of eyes, neither of which had broken connection with the other. Several different emotions had flashed through them but he had no idea what it meant. When he received no immediate answer, Dick grumbled something about secrets as he turned around and headed toward the service elevator. Or, so the men thought. The boy stopped at the curve in the tunnel and listened carefully.

"Why else, sir, would he brainwash the boy? You saw his face on field day. It was his dream to grow up to be a circus performer, Master Batman. He's not, the Flying Graysons were, and their son was on his way to becoming a star. Not to mention, sir, that the same nine-year-old boy just out-tumbled him in front of a large crowd of spectators."

"So you're saying that Mr. Mack was so jealous of the Flying Graysons that he bought a gun and shot at them but hit the wires by accident and then, because Dick lived, brainwashed the boy for some unknown reason?"

"Perhaps he wasn't jealous of them specifically, sir. He might have just as easily done it to a different group of performers. It could be, Master Batman, that Haly's Circus was in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Then why isn't he doing something worse? Dick didn't even realize he was in pain. And still doesn't!"

Dick dropped to his knees in astonishment. Wrapping his small arms around his torso, he began silently crying. Mr. Mack had killed his parents. _Mr. Mack_ had _killed_ his parents! Batman had made a good point, Dick realized as he forced himself to calm down. Why wasn't Mr. Mack – who was jealous enough of circus performers to _murder_ them – doing something worse, something more _painful_, to a former circus performer?

"Perhaps, Master Batman, he is biding his time."

That was also a good point, Dick conceded. So now he had to pay attention to his thumb _and_ Mr. Mack's body language. Bruce had been teaching him how to read people. The nine-year-old was confident that, although he was still learning, he would be able to see any sign of immediate danger.

* * *

Note: I was a gymnast for almost ten years, which is why I was able to describe the tumbling passes. If you don't know tumbling, just know that Dick's was much more complicated and required more precision. :)


	19. Chapter 19

**Several days later:**

Mr. Mack had only spared Dick a passing greeting – hello, good afternoon – for the past few days. It was frustrating to all three residents of Wayne Manor, but there was really nothing they could do about it. So, Dick decided to be proactive.

The word problem he was working on was long and complicated, even for him. Not something he wouldn't be able to figure out on his own, but close enough to ask the tutor for help. Mr. Mack willingly worked the nine-year-old through it but, when Dick tried to engage him in a conversation about acrobatic tricks, the man shook his head and stated that he had a lot of other students to tutor. He then moved on, leaving Dick more frustrated than ever.

To top it all off, Bruce got mad at his ward for trying to _make_ it happen. He talked about making Mack suspicious and how that would ruin what they were attempting to figure out. Dick argued back that they couldn't figure it out if the tutor wouldn't even talk to him. They were at an impasse, and nobody had any ideas about how to proceed.

Dick's birthday was coming up but he refused to acknowledge that fact. He never answered any questions about how he wanted to celebrate, he would just say that it didn't matter so there was no need for any sort of celebration. And he ignored the men when they brought up the subject of gifts. That was very uncharacteristic of Dick – he had never completely ignored them – but Bruce and Alfred continued trying anyway.

The nine-year-old never said anything, but the only "gift" he wanted was watching Mr. Mack being carted off to jail. A few injuries would make it almost the perfect present, but he would be satisfied even if that didn't happen.

Batman had no evidence and the boy couldn't even start the process of getting some. So, Dick – without thinking about possible consequences – decided to take the matter into his own hands. Little did he know, Mr. Mack was about to do the same thing.

* * *

**Dick's birthday:**

"Dick, I know you said you didn't want any celebration or gifts but we did it anyway," Bruce stated when his ward entered the dining room for breakfast. "Alfred is going to make whatever meals or snacks you want. And this is for you."

Bruce held out a small, rectangular package that was deceptively heavy. Dick internally growled – he really didn't care about his birthday this year – but graciously accepted the gift. His eyes widened when he unwrapped it. It was a silly thing to get all teary-eyed about, but it meant a lot to the ten-year-old.

"Did Batman steal this?" Dick asked, his tone both curious and suspicious.

"Nope," Bruce answered with a grin. "I just happen to have a few connections."

It was a sixth-grade math book. To most people, it was a stupid present. To Dick, however, it was one of the best. He had grown bored with the busy work provided by his teacher – was, in fact, extraordinarily irritated that he had to do it.

Bruce, through the always-keenly-listening ears of Alfred, had found out about the boy's frustration. It wasn't hard for him to procure the book. He was, after all, the president of the school board.

"Thanks," Dick finally said, a genuine, brilliant grin lighting up his face.

"You're welcome, chum."

"And thank you, too, Alfred."

"You are most welcome, Master Dick. We felt as you did at Christmas, young sir. We didn't want to _not_ give you something."

"The only problem," Bruce stated, "is that you can't take it to school." Dick's face fell so the man quickly continued, "However, I've found a way around that. We'll tear pages out and make them into packets. When your teacher gives you a new packet, just switch."

"What if she notices?"

"Just wait until nobody is paying attention to you."

"That won't be hard," Dick replied, rolling his eyes. "Nobody pays attention to me during math. At least, not anymore. But I still have to turn in the packets she gives me."

"Oh," Bruce stated, disappointed that he hadn't thought of that.

"She gives me ten pages, two for each day. But I think I can do them on Mondays and then use ours the rest of the week!" Dick exclaimed happily.

"You should leave one or two pages incomplete until Friday," Bruce advised. "In case she wants to see your work sometime during the week."

"She never checks, she just slaps the packet down on my desk and never comes back during math until Fridays."

"Still…" Bruce began.

"But I will," Dick interrupted agreeably.

"Why don't you want to celebrate your birthday?" Bruce asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"Master Bruce," Alfred quietly stated reprovingly.

"I don't know," Dick answered uncomfortably. "It just doesn't seem…important, I guess."

"You do know you're important to _us_, right?"

"Yeah," the boy responded with a shrug. "But that doesn't mean you have to throw a party or get presents or anything."

"You really take yourself for granted, kiddo. I could celebrate every day, just because you're here."

"But then wouldn't you be celebrating their…_that_ night?"

"No," Bruce was suddenly flustered. "I didn't mean…you really are the most intelligent child I've ever met."

"And exactly how many kids have you met, Bruce?" Dick asked with a smirk.

"Uh, Dirk and Michael and that kid on the play…"

"Master Bruce!" Alfred exclaimed, his tone still reproving.

"Do you think before you say some things?" the boy queried, amusement dancing in his light-blue eyes.

"So, um, what do you want for dinner?" Bruce inquired hastily. "And do you want cake or ice cream or both or something else or…"

"Okay, Bruce, calm down," Dick interrupted with a laugh. Glancing at Alfred, he stated, "Whatever is easiest for you. It doesn't have to be anything special."

"My word, Master Dick, you can be difficult at times," the butler responded with a slight grin. "I suppose we'll just have to surprise you, then, young sir."

And surprise him they did. The cake, although small, was a perfectly shaped bat. It was chocolate – which, surprisingly, _Bruce_ had discovered was the boy's favorite – and the frosting was made of whipped cream.

Dinner was an all-out affair. Alfred used the special occasion china and, for that one night, sat down and ate with his boys.

And finally, just before bedtime, the men gave the boy one last gift. It was a picture frame that opened like a book. Inside were two very different pictures.

The first one was extremely familiar to Dick. It was the official Haly's Circus photo of the Flying Graysons. But it wasn't the formal one, that one was in Dick's photo album. This was the silly shot, the one where his parents were kissing while he was staring up at them with an expression of amused disgust. His mother's hand was on his shoulder and his father's hand was slightly blurry as it ruffled Dick's dark hair. It was one of the last photos his family had taken together.

The second picture was a complete surprise. Somehow, Alfred had found a way to take a picture of the three of them without anybody else noticing. Bruce and Dick were heavily involved in what was probably a game of War – the boy's favorite card game. Although their faces were mostly profiled, the photo captured the twinkle in the man's eyes and the laughter dancing through those of Dick. Alfred, meanwhile, was standing between them but back a few steps. He looked every inch the proper butler, except for the slight smirk on his face. There was a hint of merriment in his eyes that came from knowing he had just captured their first family photo.

"Thanks," Dick whispered, tears shimmering in his eyes.

"You're welcome, chum," Bruce repeated his words from earlier in the day.

"You are most welcome, Master Dick," Alfred repeated his words at the same time. "And now it's off to bed, young sir. You do have school tomorrow."

Bruce settled his ward in bed and then said, "Good night, kiddo. Sleep well and dream of chocolate cake."

Dick laughed, snuggled under the covers, and promptly fell asleep.

Bruce went downstairs and then into the Batcave. It was high time Batman confronted Mr. Mack. After finding the man's address, the Caped Crusader climbed into the Batmobile and headed twenty minutes south.

* * *

The man wasn't there when Batman arrived. So, the hero waited. And waited, and waited, and waited. He finally gave up at 4AM and returned home, extremely irritated.

Alfred was still in the Batcave, awaiting his charge's return. He was dozing in the chair by the Bat-computer and Batman felt bad that the butler was still there because of him.

"There is no cause for concern, sir," Alfred stated.

He had opened his eyes and seen the regret that had just raced across the face of the cowl-less Bruce Wayne.

"I would much rather be down here dozing than upstairs, Master Bruce," the butler continued. "For up there, I would undoubtedly be wide awake, wondering if you had returned. You, sir, are more important to me than you will ever know. And I will be able to take a short nap this morning, sir, seeing as Master Dick has school and you have work."

"Thank you, Alfred," Bruce replied. "I could never have done – could never _do_ – any of this without you."

"Did you talk to the man, sir?"

"No," Bruce growled. "He wasn't there when I arrived and he never showed up."

"That's strange," Alfred murmured.

"I'll just have to try again tonight, I guess. Maybe he'll at least talk to Dick today."

"On Mondays Master Dick has math in the afternoon, sir. I shall observe through the Bat-cameras."

"But make sure you get some rest, Alfred. You both need and deserve it."

"Of course, Master Bruce, thank you."

* * *

**That afternoon:**

Dick walked in the door, gave Alfred a cursory hug then stomped away, heading for the gym. The butler was surprised – Dick almost always did his homework before doing anything else. Alfred silently walked down the hall, stopping just outside the entrance to the gym and listening carefully. There was the rhythmic pounding of a dummy being attacked and Dick – to Alfred's astonishment – was snarling. He had never heard that tone from the boy.

"Why can't I just be dumb! Then he would _have_ to help me! And why won't he even _talk_ to me anymore?!"

Now Alfred knew what was going on. He had observed Mr. Mack through the Bat-cameras, as he had told Bruce he would. The man had completely ignored Dick. He hadn't looked the boy's way at all, even when he was helping the girl sitting right next to Dick.

Alfred left the ten-year-old to release his frustration on the punching dummy. He laid out a snack and Dick's homework, then went to prepare dinner. The boy was still in the gym when Bruce came home almost two hours later.

Bruce sighed when Alfred explained the situation. He had told Dick not to get upset with himself, but he also understood the boy's frustration. Hopefully, Batman would be able to get some answers tonight.

The man walked into the gym, expecting his ward to still be attacking a dummy. But Dick was nowhere to be seen. Then Bruce heard a familiar 'creak' and looked up. Dick was sitting on the edge of the trapeze platform, roughly shoving the bar away every time it returned to him.

Bruce wasn't sure how to proceed. Dick was precariously situated thirty feet in the air. The man was worried that the boy would tumble to the ground if startled. And Bruce walking in and beginning to talk would certainly startle him.

"We're never going to figure it out, Bruce. He's ignoring me now, and I don't know why. If I was dumb in math…"

"But you're not so we'll just have to be patient," Bruce interrupted.

He was astonished that Dick had known he was there. However, as he well knew, his ward was extremely observant. Almost as observant as Batman.

Dick was climbing down the ladder now. He jumped off the third rung and walked over to where his guardian was standing.

"It's four days away," he mumbled sadly, staring at the ground.

"I know, chum," Bruce replied softly. "Is there anything special you want to do?"

"Catch the person who did it," the ten-year-old whispered.

"Batman's working on it."

"Does he have any ideas, or even clues?" Dick asked, lifting his gaze to that of Bruce.

Bruce hesitated for half a second before replying, "Nothing helpful. I talked to a couple of guys a few weeks ago but I've been stuck since then."

_Liar._

Dick frowned as the word raced through his mind. Batman thought it was Mr. Mack but Bruce had decided to lie about it.

"Well, maybe something will come up soon," the boy mumbled before turning around and walking away.

After he was out of sight, Alfred stepped out of the shadows near the door.

"You do realize, Master Bruce, that you just told your ward an outright lie."

"Not outright," Bruce countered. "Just one of omission."

"A lie is a lie, Master Bruce, no matter what you call it. And when, sir, are you going to tell him as you promised me you would?"

"Not this week. Friday is the first anniversary of their death. He doesn't need something else piled on his shoulders."

"Well, don't wait too long, sir," Alfred advised. "You'll lose his trust if he finds out before you tell him yourself."

Bruce nodded and Alfred returned to the kitchen. Dinner that night was subdued. Dick, after asking to be excused, quickly did his homework and then went upstairs.

Batman went to Mr. Mack's house again that night. The same thing happened – the tutor never appeared. And it happened the next three nights, also. It was as if the man disappeared between school and home.

And now it was Friday. Bruce had asked Dick if he wanted to stay home from school, but the boy had refused. He had a plan – unknown to the men, of course – and this particular date was the best time to execute it.

Dick was sure that Mr. Mack would agree to show him some more tricks on the rope. So, he was going to get the man to do it after school. Then, since Mr. Mack wouldn't be expecting it – and therefore, wouldn't be prepared to protect himself – Dick was going to beat him to a pulp.

The ten-year-old didn't know it, but Mr. Mack had a similar plan. His was a little more ruthless – death was involved – and he had also decided that this particular date was perfect.

* * *

**Gotham Elementary – that afternoon:**

"Mr. Mack!" Dick called as he ran out of his classroom.

The tutor had finished his day in the room next to Dick's, so the boy knew he had to hurry in order to catch up. To his surprise, Mr. Mack stopped, turned around, and waited for him.

"I'm working on a rope trick," Dick began when he caught up. "But I don't know how to get down, I always just fall. Will you help me with it?"

That was a complete lie. The only reason Dick ever used the rope was to strengthen his arms by climbing it. But Mr. Mack didn't need to know that.

"Well…" the man hesitated.

"Please?" Dick nearly begged. "I'll call Alfred to pick me up so it won't matter if I miss the bus! You're really amazing and I need help!"

"Make the call first," the tutor stated, a little flattered at the statement. "I'll meet you in the gym. If you aren't there in five minutes, I'll assume that he can't pick you up and you took the bus."

"Okay!" Dick nearly shouted before racing away.

Mr. Mack grinned. The boy had just made it much easier for the man to execute his plan. Receiving a compliment from the kid who had out-tumbled him was nice, but it didn't mean he was going to abandon that plan.

Dick had to lie to Alfred, also. There was no way the butler would allow him to stay at school with Mr. Mack. Batman and Alfred suspected the man and would assume that Dick was in danger. The ten-year-old felt bad, but knew it was necessary if he wanted his plan to work.

"We had a math test – a really long one – so she asked if I would be willing to stay and help her grade it," Dick explained.

"Are you sure you want to do that on _this_ day, Master Dick?"

The boy paused, then softly replied, "It might help take my mind off it, for a little while."

"Very well, young sir," Alfred acquiesced. "I'll come for you in an hour. Wait with your teacher please, Master Dick. I will call her when I arrive so she can walk you out."

"Okay, thanks, Alfred!" Dick quietly exclaimed before hanging up.

The butler, hearing a little too much excitement from the boy on _this_ day, decided to watch the Bat-cameras. He took the service elevator down to the Batcave and flipped the switch on the Bat-camera Receiving Machine. Dick wasn't in view yet, but he had probably been in the office to make the call. It would take the boy at least five minutes to return to his classroom.

Dick arrived at the gym with thirty seconds to spare. Mr. Mack had already lowered a rope and set up a mat underneath. He was chalking up when Dick walked in.

"You made it," the tutor said with a slight grin.

"Yeah, Alfred said an hour, though, so I don't have much time."

"I think an hour will be just right. Go chalk up while I add another mat."

Dick nodded and Mr. Mack turned away. The boy didn't waste any time. He sprinted to the man, jumped in the air, and slammed his feet into the backs of the man's knees. They buckled and the tutor went down, landing hard on his stomach. Dick also dropped to the floor but cushioned himself by tucking into a forward roll.

The ten-year-old immediately popped up and jumped onto Mr. Mack's back. His small fists began landing soft blows on the man's neck, ears, and head. Bruce had said that Dick had power, but the boy didn't know how to move his body to engage that power when sitting on someone's back.

"You killed them!" he yelled angrily. "Why?! What did they do to you?!"

"Dick, what are you doing?" the tutor yelled back. "What are you talking about?!"

The boy was light, and the man easily rolled out of his grasp, ending up on his knees. He was surprised when he touched the side of his head and felt liquid. When he pulled his hand away, his fingers were slightly red.

Dick was already standing up. He launched himself at the tutor and this time the small fists were gently slamming into the man's torso. One flew into his face and Mr. Mack growled. Since Dick already knew that he had killed the Flying Graysons, it was time to end this.

And end it he did, with a swift punch to the side of Dick's head. The ten-year-old immediately dropped to the ground, completely unconscious. Mr. Mack stood up, swooped the boy into his arms and strode out the back door. He crossed the deserted bus zone and headed for the teacher parking lot. It was full of cars, but devoid of humans. The man stomped to his car, tossed the boy in the back seat, then climbed in and took off.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

Alfred furrowed his brow. It had been six minutes since he had hung up and there was no sign of Dick in his classroom. In fact, the teacher was cleaning up for the day, not sitting at her desk grading tests.

A movement to his right caught the butler's eye and he turned to the recently installed Bat-camera in the gym. His eyes widened when he saw Dick using the math tutor as a punching dummy. Had the boy found out about Batman's suspicion? And, if so, how?!

That suddenly didn't matter. Mr. Mack had just knocked the boy out and was carrying him across the room. Without hesitation, Alfred picked up the Manor phone and quickly punched in the number to the office of Bruce Wayne.

"Alfred!" Bruce exclaimed, happiness in his voice. "I was just leaving! Tell Dick I'll be home early. Today was probably hard for him and I want…"

"Master Bruce!" the butler uncharacteristically interrupted loudly. "You need to take the helicopter, sir!"

"Alfred, what's wrong?" Bruce asked, a frown appearing on his face.

His butler sounded worried – no, it was closer to frantic.

"Somehow Master Dick found out. I'll explain when you get here. Just get here fast, sir. The young master's life may depend on it!"

"Alfred?" Bruce growled.

"Oh, for heaven's sake, sir, can't you obey just this once?! Mr. Mack has Master Dick!"

"_WHAT?!_" Bruce exploded, dropping the phone and sprinting out the door.

Ten long minutes later, the helicopter landed and Bruce jumped out. He rushed into the house, raced to his study and slid down the pole faster than he ever had before.

Alfred immediately explained Dick's phone call and played the entire tape from the gym. He hadn't seen the beginning and both men were astonished when they saw how the boy had taken the man down.

"How did he find out?!" Batman demanded.

"Does that really matter right now, sir?"

They saw the blood on Mr. Mack's head and, after watching the man punch the boy, knew there would be a good-sized lump on Dick's small head.

"Where would he take him?!" Batman demanded again, his voice louder than before.

"I have no idea, si…"

Batman glanced at Alfred when the man paused.

"West, sir. I took the liberty of looking up the man's license plate. This street camera," he stated, pointing to the left of where they had been looking, "just caught it."

"West," Batman growled. "He's going to take him back to the circus."

"I agree, Master Batman. And I am worried that he will do more than just take him there."

"He's going to kill him. Remind him, terrify him, and then _murder_ him, just like he murdered Dick's parents!"

"Then why, sir, are you still here?!"

Batman glanced at his butler then raced to the Batmobile, climbed in, and roared away. The circus grounds were forty minutes away by car. The Batmobile was faster than a normal car, of course, but twenty-five minutes was plenty of time for someone to commit murder.

* * *

**The circus grounds:**

Dick was still unconscious when Mr. Mack pulled him out of the car. But he was close to waking up, and that's what happened when his body hit the hard ground.

"So, you figured it out," Mack snarled. "I don't care how so just keep your mouth shut."

"_WHY_?!" Dick demanded as he slowly stood up.

He was dizzy and felt like he was going to throw up. His head was throbbing and Mr. Mack looked a little fuzzy. But the man had _killed_ Dick's parents, and the ten-year-old wasn't going to let him get away with it.

"I told you to keep your mouth shut!" Mack yelled.

"Just…please…" Dick's voice was suddenly quiet, "…why?"

"The identities of the performers didn't matter," the man growled. "A circus had come to town and I was tired of hearing everyone getting so excited about seeing the acrobats. Your parents," he shrugged, "wrong place, wrong time."

"And…me?" Dick whispered.

"The last of the Flying Graysons. Do you really think I'm going to watch you, a _very_ talented acrobat, grow into what _I_ should have been?" Mack sneered. "Grow up, join a circus, become famous…"

"I don't want to be famous!" Dick interrupted loudly, tears sliding down his face.

"You don't have a choice, you already are!" Mack shouted angrily. "The Flying Graysons were the most spectacular act in the world! You were part of that act and their legacy will grow with you, follow you around for the rest of your life!"

"But I'm not going to join a circus," Dick stated sadly. "That part…I can't…it's over."

"And _then_," the man snapped, completely ignoring the boy's reply, "you had to show me up at field day!"

"It was a competition!" Dick shouted. "I don't back down in a competition! And you were amazing! I had to come up with a different pass because you were so incredible!"

"I easily won that competition every year," Mack snarled, ignoring the compliment. "Then_ you_ come along, fresh out of years of training, and embarrass me!"

"I wasn't trying to embarrass you, I was trying to win!"

They were non-stop yelling now and both were tired of it.

"Let's just finish this," Dick growled.

"You want _us_ to finish?" Mack sneered contemptuously. "I'll finish what I started a year ago. You don't stand a chance against me. I'm twice your height and probably three times your weight!"

"I DON'T CARE!" Dick screamed.

Without a second thought, he sprinted toward the man. His quickness caught the killer off-guard and Dick was able to slam his fist into a kidney. Mack arched slightly and the ten-year-old took the opportunity to smash his foot into the man's solar plexus.

Mack grunted in pain as he stumbled back. Dick's next kick connected with the man's chin, snapping his head back. The murderer stumbled again but was able to reach the gun hidden in his waistband.

"Enough!" he barked, pointing the barrel at Dick's heart.

"Taking the coward's way out?" Dick stupidly taunted. "Can't even take down a mere _boy_ without using a weapon?"

A shot rang out and the force of the bullet hitting his left shoulder threw Dick to the ground. Blood began spilling out of the wound, but the boy ignored it. Rolling over his uninjured shoulder, Dick stood up again.

"I didn't know you had this in you," Mack growled, his tone outlined with surprise. "You've always been so studious, so quiet, so _weak_. Yet here we are, you bleeding from a hole in your shoulder and me with a bruise forming on my chin. That shot was a warning; the next one will kill you. But first, let's talk about the many small details from that night. I'm sure you're _dying_ to hear them."

"I am not weak," Dick retorted, his tone dark. "You have no idea what I've been through this year. And you think a little hole in an insignificant spot is going to stop me from taking you down? You. Are. Wrong. And an idiot."

"Oh, please," the man snarled, rolling his eyes. "I have a _gun_. You're fast, but you can't beat a bullet. It will be in your heart before you can even begin to run!"

Something whistled through the air, ripping the gun from Mack's hand and sending it flying. The weapon landed two feet in front of Dick. Slowly, he bent down and picked it up. He pointed it at the man's chest, his mind yelling at him to shoot but his hand shaking as if he was fighting the thought.


	20. Chapter 20

Batman arrived at the circus grounds just in time to see a bullet tear through the skin of his ward's shoulder. He was too far away, not even a Bat-a-rang could save Dick if the man shot again.

But the two were talking – sneering – giving the Caped Crusader time to run closer. He wasn't even trying to be stealthy but neither the man nor the boy noticed his presence. Or, if they did, they chose to ignore it.

There was the distinctive sound of a gun being cocked and Batman quickly pulled a Bat-a-rang out of his utility belt. He immediately threw it and was relieved when the weapon flew out of the man's hand. But then Dick picked it up, and Batman froze.

Quickly regaining his wits, the Caped Crusader loudly but calmly stated, "Dick, you don't want to do this. He's not worth it, I can arrest him and give him to the commissioner. The police can handle…"

"Like they did on _that_ night?!" Dick snarled.

He glanced at Batman, who was slowly walking towards him from the side.

"They've handled it so well for a year!" the ten-year-old snapped sarcastically. "And yet I'm going to be the one to take him down!"

"No, you're not," the hero said quietly as he approached.

"STOP!" Dick yelled. "Stay there, Batman, or I _will_ shoot!"

"You couldn't shoot me in a million years!" Mack taunted. "You're too weak."

"I'm _not_ _WEAK_!"

Batman had stopped walking and was ten yards away from the boy. Ignoring the words from Mack, he focused solely on Dick and continued speaking.

"You're right, Dick, you're not weak. You are stronger than this. Shooting him won't bring them back. Put the gun down, kiddo."

The nickname from Bruce Wayne didn't make an impact on the boy like Batman had hoped it would.

"Both of you need to shut up!" the ten-year-old growled.

Batman took another step and Dick glanced at him, a dark glare radiating from his eyes.

"I said _stop_."

"I'm not going to allow you to do this," the hero stated, continuing his slow stride toward his ward.

"I can fire before you get here."

"But you won't."

"You don't know that!"

"Put the gun down, Dick."

"He _killed them_!" the boy yelled as tears began coursing down his cheeks.

"But they wouldn't want you to do this."

"Turn that gun around before you fire and you can be with them!" Mack stated, a touch of fear in his voice.

"Shut up!" Batman growled in the man's direction.

"NO! I'm not the one who should die!"

"Neither is he," the Caped Crusader said calmly as he slowly stretched his hand toward the gun.

"_NO_!" Dick yelled again.

Batman carefully wrapped his strong hand around the gun. Dick instantly gave in, releasing the weapon and dropping to the ground, sobbing.

Mack, assuming the hero would stay with the boy, turned and fled. But Batman had already begun the chase. With a quick glance back at Dick to assure himself that the boy wouldn't do anything stupid, the hero dropped the gun as he ran. It was a safe ten yards away from the human heap of misery, who wouldn't be getting up anytime soon.

Three seconds later, he tackled Mack from behind. The men tumbled to the ground. Mack's head hit a rock, knocking him out, so all Batman had to do was put Bat-cuffs around his wrists. Then he whirled around and sprinted back to his ten-year-old ward.

"I'm…sorry…I'm…sorry…" Dick was saying over and over, a sob of anguish between each word.

Batman knelt down and noticed the blood running down the boy's arm. He quickly enveloped it in Bat-wrap. Dick lifted his head and gazed sorrowfully into the eyes of his hero.

"I don't…feel good," he whispered.

Suddenly, he rolled away from Batman and promptly threw up. The Caped Crusader was instantaneously by his side again. Using a Bat-towel, he gently wiped the blood, sweat, tears and dirt off his ward's face.

"We need to get you out of here," he said softly. "Alfred already called Commissioner Gordon. They'll be here soon."

"But won't…won't they need my, uh…statement?" Dick asked, his voice full of grief.

"They don't even know you're here. I'm going to make sure that Mr. Mack thinks he was attempting to kill me. He won't remember your presence. But, in order to do that, I need you to sit in the Batmobile. And stay there. Okay?"

Dick nodded and carefully stood up. Dizziness assaulted him and he swayed. He would have fallen to the ground if Batman hadn't been standing right next to him.

"How do you feel, kiddo?"

"Dizzy, tired, my arm hurts and I think someone is pounding a nail into my head. And I _really_ think I'm going to throw up again."

They had been slowly walking toward the Batmobile, Dick leaning heavily on the hero, but they stopped as soon as he said that.

Pulling a little blue pill out of his utility belt, the Caped Crusader said, "Chew this up, it will help with that. It's also going to make you a little sleepy, but I need you to stay awake."

"Is it bad if I fall asleep?"

"I think you have a concussion, so I need you to stay awake."

"That didn't answer my question."

With a sigh, and a slight grin at the intelligent reply, Batman stated, "It _could_ be bad."

"Then don't give me the pill because I'm already sleepy."

"Okay," the hero agreed. "Let's get you to the Batmobile."

They continued on but, just before climbing into the vehicle, Dick pushed Batman away. Grabbing his torso, the boy dropped to his knees and threw up again.

"Sorry," he said breathlessly when the heaving stopped. "Maybe I should sit out here in case it happens again."

"I'm not going to allow you to sit on the hard ground with the way you're feeling. The Batmobile is washable. If it happens, it happens."

"But…" Dick began.

Batman, however, had already gently scooped him up. He situated the boy in the passenger seat then, noticing the sheen of a layer of sweat on the small forehead, removed his glove. The Caped Crusader placed his hand on the boy's brow and frowned.

"Fever?" Dick grumbled.

"Yes, and a pretty high one from the heat radiating off your head."

Batman grabbed the Bat-blanket from the backseat. He wrapped it around the ten-year-old then looked straight into the light-blue eyes.

"Keep this on, stay right here, keep your eyes open and do _not_ look over at Mr. Mack. I need him to forget you were here and that won't happen if he sees you."

"Okay," Dick whispered as his eyes slid closed.

"No, chum, you have to stay awake!" Batman commanded loudly.

"Awake," Dick repeated as he struggled to open his eyes. "Right, awake, sorry."

"You think you can do it?"

"Will you hit me so I can?"

"What?! No, you can do this, you're strong, remember?!"

"Yeah…I'm just so…t'rd."

The light-blue circles disappeared again.

"Dick. Dick! Open your eyes, kiddo!"

Batman only received an incoherent mumble in response.

"I don't want to do this, Dick. I told you I would never hit you. Come on, wake up for me. I can't…I really think you should open your eyes!"

Soft gibberish was all the hero received this time. Grabbing the boy's uninjured shoulder, Batman roughly shook it. There was no response so, against his better judgement, the Caped Crusader grabbed the shoulder with the bullet wound. He tried gently shaking it but then gave up and violently shook both small shoulders. Dick's head fell to the side.

"No, come on," Batman murmured angrily. "Open your eyes."

It was useless; obviously Dick wasn't going to wake up no matter how hard the hero shook his shoulders.

"I'm sorry," the Caped Crusader whispered as he pushed down on the bullet wound with his thumb.

Dick's entire body involuntarily shuddered. But that was it – no opening of the eyes, no gasping in pain, not even a quiet groan.

"I can't do this, I can't hit you into awareness. _Wake up_!"

The last sentence was a loud command but again he received no response.

"Alfred is going to _kill_ me," Batman muttered. "You better wake up because I can barely bring myself to do this once."

He tried to do it gently instead, lightly patting the boy's left cheek, which was facing Batman. But he knew that wasn't going to help. Batman was going to have to slap Dick Grayson, even though Bruce Wayne had said he would never hit the boy. However, the hero knew it was either a slap or a coma, and he wasn't going to allow the latter.

Reluctantly, he raised his right hand and brought it down hard on his ward's left cheek. That was going to leave a bruise, he could already tell. But Dick's eyes snapped open and pain flashed through them.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," Batman immediately said. "I didn't want…"

"Did you just _slap_ me awake?" Dick interrupted incredulously, his eyes open wide in astonishment.

"I'm so sorry…"

"I can't believe it!"

"I know I said I would never hit you but I couldn't let you stay asleep because you have a concussion and I don't know how severe it is so I can't take the chance that you might go into a coma and you wouldn't wake up even when I was roughly shaking your shoulders in fact you stopped responding to that so I couldn't really think of anything else to do and…"

"Stop," Dick commanded, interrupting the rambling explanation rushing out of Batman's mouth. "I'm not upset, I understand. And Batman doesn't ramble so just…stop."

"I'm sorry," the hero repeated.

"Hey, it's the least violent thing that's happened to me so don't worry about it."

The sentence was accompanied by a small smirk. Batman was frowning and Dick could see the anger that he knew wasn't directed at him.

"Really, Batman, it's okay," he said softly.

"It's not," the Caped Crusader growled. "I told you…"

"No," Dick immediately interrupted. "_Bruce Wayne_ told me, not Batman. You did what you had to do so let it go."

"Why are you so darn smart?" the man mumbled. "Finding a loophole to try to make me feel better."

The words were soft but the boy heard every single one.

"Did it work?" he asked, the smirk turning into a grin.

They heard sirens in the distance and Batman realized that he hadn't wiped recent events from Mack's memory.

"I'll be back, kiddo. Please stay awake for me."

Dick nodded and the Caped Crusader raced away. He retrieved the gun from where he had tossed it and wiped it clean with a Bat-towel as he ran toward Mr. Mack. Crouching, he shook the man awake and immediately used Bat-nesia spray on him. As the disoriented man tried to recover, the hero placed the gun in one of Mack's hands and rubbed his fingerprints all over it. Now Dick's were gone and Mack's were everywhere.

Tossing the gun to the side, in full view of any policeman, Batman began taking stock of Mack's injuries. He didn't care about the man but he also didn't want him to sink into the depths of unconsciousness.

"Bruise on the chin, dried blood on the head, lump on the other side of the head, fresh blood on the hand, slight wheezing sound with each breath."

_Dick really does have some power. What happened to make the man wheeze like that?_

The hero couldn't ask Mack what happened because it involved Dick. Mentally shrugging – he would watch the tape from the city camera later – the Caped Crusader stood up and awaited the arrival of the commissioner.

"What am I doing here?" Mack suddenly grumbled.

"You just confessed to killing the Flying Graysons," Batman growled.

"I…_what_?!" the man screamed. "Why would I do that?!"

"Because you committed the crime, idiot," the hero snarled. "I figured it out, although fortunately for you it took me a while, but now we're here and you confessed."

"Why would I confess _here_?! How did I – we – get here?!"

"You attempted to kidnap someone but it didn't work out. I followed you here and you shot at me. The bullet missed and my Bat-a-rang sliced your hand as it ripped the gun away from you."

"Was it the Grayson kid?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"If I were to kidnap anyone, which I doubt I did, it would have been him. He's part of _them_ and a ridiculously talented acrobat. That's _my_ spotlight he took. I should have killed him, too, but there were so many people bunched around him, attempting to _help_ him. Stupid but lucky kid. If I had taken a few more shots…but I didn't even see him until he was down there with the other performers. Stupid kid," he repeated.

The last half of the monologue was whispered, as if the man was talking to himself.

Batman's hands were balled into fists and his jaw was clenched in fury. He really wanted to just start beating the guy, but police cars were pulling up, their lights shining directly on the pair. At least Mack had confessed directly to him, so he didn't have to lie about receiving an admission of guilt.

"Again, I don't know what you're talking about," he growled instead. "But you should know that you're lucky Commissioner Gordon is here. If he wasn't, you would be a bloody, unconscious pulp of flesh."

"He's threatening me!" Mack yelled at the policemen walking towards them.

Before he could say anything else, Batman whipped around and stalked toward the commissioner.

"Did you threaten him, Batman?" Commissioner Gordon sighed.

He fully expected a growl of irritation or a Bat-glare or something similar. Instead, to his great surprise, he received a confirming nod.

"He confessed to killing the Flying Graysons. What am I supposed to do, thank him?"

The words were quiet, but the tone was full of rage. And the commissioner completely understood. They had been searching for this specific killer for a long time. In fact, he realized, for exactly a year. And Batman, as Commissioner Gordon knew from their experience with Mark Jerkins, became furious when something terrible happened to a child.

"Thank you, Batman. I'm sure Bruce Wayne will be relieved to know that this particular criminal has been captured."

With a short nod, the Caped Crusader turned away and strode to the Batmobile. To his immense relief, Dick was wide awake, softly humming a tune unknown to the hero.

"A song she used to sing to get me up in the morning," the boy whispered, assuming Batman would want the answer to his unasked question. "Kept me awake while I waited for you. Did it work?"

"What?" Batman asked as the Batmobile roared to life.

"Does he remember me being here?"

"No, but he did say…never mind."

"I think I know. He should have killed me on _that_ night."

There was a long pause. The Batmobile was cruising across the rocks and weeds of the circus grounds, passing several police cars. Nobody noticed a young boy in the car with the Caped Crusader, and he was grateful. He actually hadn't thought about that.

"Right?" Dick asked quietly.

"Yes," Batman finally replied.

"Why did you – did _Bruce_ – lie to me when I asked if Batman had any clues?"

The boy's voice was still quiet, but the words were outlined with betrayal.

"You saw him every day," the hero answered with a sigh. "I didn't want anything to happen. I was trying to protect you."

"Sometimes that doesn't really work out the way you envision it," Dick stated.

"That's true. I'm…sorry. I should have told you. How did you find out?"

"I stayed in the tunnel on the night that you and Alfred were having a conversation using just your eyes," the ten-year-old confessed. "I knew something important was being discussed and I knew it had something to do with me. Otherwise you would be talking out loud."

"I shouldn't be surprised. I feel like I'm telling you you're smart every day."

"That's okay, I don't mind," Dick said with a grin.

They glanced at each other and Batman immediately noticed the bruise already shining on the boy's left cheek.

"Alfred is _really_ going to kill me," the Caped Crusader mumbled.

"He'll understand," Dick assured him, carefully prodding the cheek with his fingers. "Besides, like I said, it's the most minor injury I've had so he should be delighted with that. He'll probably be so focused on my shoulder that he won't even notice it."

"Alfred notices _everything_. And both injuries are on the left side. He'll definitely notice."

"Are you scared of him?" Dick teased with a smirk.

Batman didn't say anything and the ten-year-old chuckled. They were almost to the Batcave but Dick suddenly grabbed the hero's arm.

"Pull over," he choked out.

"Why…"

"Please," the boy mumbled.

Batman did as he was asked. As soon as it was safe, Dick pushed his door open and threw up again. Leaning over the edge of the vehicle enhanced his dizziness, and he almost fell face-first onto the road. Luckily, Batman had grabbed the boy's arm as soon as he bent over and that allowed him to prevent the fall.

He pulled the ten-year-old back into the seat. Dick's eyes were now bright with fever and his head was lolling around his shoulders. Blood was beginning to seep through the Bat-wrap covering the bullet wound and the bruise on his cheek was like a bright light on the now-pale face.

Batman opened the Bat-communicator and Alfred answered immediately.

"How is he, sir?"

The butler had watched the scene at the circus grounds through a city camera. He had frozen in trepidation when the man had shot the boy. Then he had covered his mouth in dismay when Dick had picked up the gun. Batman's actions in the Batmobile were blocked by the vehicle itself, so he had no idea of the boy's actual condition.

"High fever, bullet wound, concussion – he's been throwing up – bruised cheek and tired," Batman reported succinctly.

"I shall prepare for your arrival, Master Batman. Can you give me an approximate time, sir?"

"I'm speeding up so it would have been ten but now you've got five."

"I shall be ready, sir. Batcave out."

"We're almost there, chum," Batman stated loudly.

Dick mumbled a response and then threw the Bat-blanket off.

"Hot," he muttered.

Batman was going to try to put it back on, but they were almost to the Batcave. A struggle wouldn't be worth it since he was going to put the boy on a medical table soon anyway.

Three minutes later, he was cruising through the tunnel and fifteen seconds after that he had parked. Alfred was waiting by a table, various instruments laid out on a tray next to him. Batman quickly strode to the passenger side, lifted Dick out, carried him across the Batcave and put him in the capable hands of his butler.

The boy's face was slightly pink instead of pale now, the fever beginning to manifest itself through his skin.

"Cool water and a cloth, please, Master Batman," Alfred commanded calmly.

Nodding, Batman left to retrieve the requested items while the butler turned to the cabinet behind him and found a bottle of fever reducer.

"Open your mouth, please, Master Dick," he lightly demanded.

Surprisingly, the boy did as he was told. Alfred was able to easily give him the medicine. Several seconds later, Bruce Wayne returned with a large bowl and several washcloths.

"I'll start on the bullet, Master Bruce, if you'll begin cooling him."

"I don't think it's too deep," Bruce stated as he dipped the cloth in the bowl of cool water. "It's bleeding again, though."

"Thank you, sir, I can see that," Alfred replied, a touch of humor in his voice.

He had already removed the Bat-wrap and was poking and prodding the shoulder. Apparently the usually-observant younger man had missed that fact.

"Deeper than I would have hoped but no trouble, young sir," the butler murmured soothingly. "We'll have it out in a jiffy."

He was wrong. When Batman had tried to wake Dick up by shaking his shoulders and digging his thumb into the wound, the bullet had shifted. It was no longer in line with the hole, which meant that Alfred couldn't quickly remove it with the extractor.

"Perhaps some Bat-sleep, sir," the butler said softly enough that he thought only Bruce would hear him. "This is going to hurt."

"I can deal," Dick whispered.

His tired eyes were dancing with fear but outlined with determination.

"Let me do it," the boy requested.

"No, chum, this will be worse than the pain after your surgery. He's going to dig into your shoulder and root around to pull the bullet out."

"Master Bruce, I shall not be 'rooting around'!" Alfred exclaimed indignantly. "I know exactly where it is! However, Master Dick, he is correct about one thing," the butler stated much more calmly. "I do have to dig into your shoulder with a scalpel, young sir."

"You guys said I have a high pain tolerance."

"That doesn't mean you have to use it, kiddo."

"You said I couldn't go to sleep."

"Bat-sleep will not send you into a coma, Master Dick. It merely relaxes you enough that you seem to be sleeping. Your subconscious allows you to stay that way until you are given Bat-awake."

He was out of excuses so the ten-year-old sighed and nodded. Bruce, who already had the can ready, sprayed a gentle mist into Dick's face. The boy's expression relaxed and the man continued patting his face and head with the cool cloth.

"Rooting around, indeed," Alfred murmured somewhat crossly.

"Sorry," Bruce responded with a slight grin.

It took five minutes to extract the bullet. Longer than both men had hoped but at least it was out. Alfred wiped the blood off the small shoulder then wrapped the injury. After completing that task, he took Dick's temperature and looked at Bruce with a small smile.

"Only 100.3, sir. From the way he felt when you arrived, I assumed that it would take much longer than this to lower his temperature. Now, what else needs attending to?" he questioned himself softly.

"There's a, uh, bruise on his cheek," Bruce stated, guilt filling the words.

"I see that, Master Bruce, but why do you sound guilty?" Alfred asked, his eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"He wouldn't wake up!" the younger man exclaimed. "I shook his shoulders, I did everything I could but he eventually stopped responding altogether! It was the only thing I could think of to try next!"

"Did you…_hit_ him, sir?!" Alfred demanded, his voice full of disbelief.

"I…yes, I slapped him."

"Hard enough to leave _this_," the butler growled, pointing to the now-purple bruise that resembled a handprint.

"I tried patting him first. I even dug my thumb into his injury! I couldn't let him sleep, Alfred, what if he fell into a coma?!"

The butler took a deep breath before replying. He was angry but also understood why Bruce had done it. And he remembered the one time he had been forced to slap Batman into awareness. It had been a last resort for him, and he knew it had been for Batman, also.

"I would have done the same thing, sir, if it came down to it. A bruise is better than a coma, but it does upset me that he was injured enough for you to have to do that."

"I wouldn't have…"

"I know, Master Bruce. How did _he_ feel about it when he realized how you had woken him?"

"He smirked at me," Bruce mumbled. "And he immediately told me to let it go. How did we get so lucky, Alfred? After everything that's happened he's still so…forgiving."

"He is a remarkable child, Master Bruce."

The men stared down at the bruised but peaceful face of the young boy.

"We should wake him up," Bruce eventually commented.

"I suppose so, Master Bruce," Alfred replied with a sigh. "I do hate to wake people up when they are slumbering so peacefully."

"Yes, but he can't sleep for too long."

"I know, sir. Even Bat-sleep won't prevent a coma if left too long."

"And yet you told him it was fine."

"A mere reassurance, sir."

"A lie is a lie, Alfred," Bruce stated, tossing the butler's own words back at him with a smirk.

"I shall apologize, sir, when he doesn't have to worry about things like that anymore."

"Nothing like this is going to happen again, Alfred."

"He's stubborn, Master Bruce, which can sometimes lead to trouble."

"But he's a good kid!"

"That's not what I meant, sir. He's somewhat like you, Master Bruce. He has already seen – _felt_ – the injustice in this world. And, although he doesn't consciously show it, the fact that it occurs irritates him, just as it does you."

"There's nothing he can do about it, though," Bruce replied.

"Did that stop _you_, Master Bruce? You didn't have 'Batman' to look up to; Master Dick does. I shan't be surprised, sir, if sometime in the future, near or far, he wants to join you in your crusade against injustice."

"That's ridiculous, Alfred. He's seen enough evil, why would he want to go find more?"

"For the same reasons you do," the butler remarked. "Remember my words, Master Bruce, when he comes to you and offers to help."

"He's a _child_, Alfred!"

"I didn't say you should allow him to do it, sir. I was merely stating my opinion, based on everything I have seen this past year."

"Let's wake him up," Bruce growled, effectively ending the conversation by spraying a fine mist of Bat-awake on his ward's face.

"Hey, chum," he said softly when the boy opened his eyes.

"It's already done?" Dick whispered in surprise.

"Yes, young sir," Alfred replied as he gently placed a small package of Bat-ice on the boy's bruised cheek.

"I'm going to take you up to your room," Bruce stated. "Do you think you can walk? I don't mind carrying you."

"No," Dick replied quietly. "I can make it. I'm strong, remember?"

He grinned slightly, as did Bruce.

"I'm…sorry," the ten-year-old declared, his grin faltering as he carefully sat up. "I shouldn't have even picked it up."

"I agree," Bruce replied, "but I also understand why you did. I'm just grateful that picking it up was the only thing you did with it."

"I wanted to shoot him."

"But you didn't, and it's over. You don't have to worry about him anymore. Let's just get you up to bed."

Bruce helped Dick off the table and they slowly made their way to the service elevator.

"Still a little dizzy?" the man asked.

The boy was slightly off-balance and Bruce already knew the answer to his question. But he wanted to know if Dick would admit it, especially since the ten-year-old had just reminded them of his high pain tolerance.

"A little," Dick readily answered. "But I can walk, so it's not that bad. Why doesn't my shoulder hurt?"

"Alfred gave you some medicine."

"I'm tired. Will it be okay if I go to sleep when we get there?"

"Yes, it's been a while since you were hit. You're past the dangerous stage."

"Okay, good, because I really want to go to sleep."

"It's been a long, hard day for you, kiddo."

"Will you, um…"

"Of course," Bruce quickly agreed, already knowing the question. "I'll stay until you wake up, if you want me to."

"Just until I fall asleep is okay. You've had a hard day, too," Dick replied. "Racing across town to rescue me, stopping me from committing murder, slapping me awake," he paused to smirk in the darkness of the hallway. "And you've been glaring so I know you're worried about everything. And this time it is my fault. So, you need to sleep and you can't do that in a chair in my room."

"I'm sorry I…"

"Forget it, Bruce. I would've done the same thing to you. Mine might not have been strong enough, though, so don't get knocked unconscious unless Alfred is around."

"I'll do my best," Bruce replied, amusement filling the words.

They arrived at Dick's room and the man gently helped his ward get situated. Then he pulled his usual chair over and settled himself. He assumed he would be there for a while, the night had been very traumatic, but the boy was asleep before Bruce had even found a comfortable position.

"Dick?" he whispered.

The only response was the deep breathing of a fast asleep ten-year-old. Surprised, the man stood up and left, leaving both Dick's door and his own wide open. Just in case.


	21. Chapter 21

**The next morning:**

Alfred was on the phone when Bruce came down the next morning. The butler's face was pinched with worry and his jaw was slightly clenched.

"Of course, Miss Jameson, I understand. I assume you'll want to…yes, of course. I'll let him know. I'm sure he'll try his best…I understand. Six o'clock? That's usually when they…I suppose so…no, of course not! The boy does need to…. We have a certain schedule…of course. We'll see you then."

Alfred hung up and growled. Bruce raised his eyebrows in surprise at the sound. The butler turned around and saw the younger man's expression.

"She's coming here on Monday at six in the evening, sir. You must be here, Master Bruce, even if you have to reschedule an important meeting. Miss Jameson will undoubtedly want to talk to each of us separately."

Shaking his head in disbelief, Bruce replied, "Why now and what was she saying? You were interrupted quite a few times."

"Apparently, sir, she feels that she hasn't checked on the boy in a while and needs to do so immediately. I tried to tell her that we follow a schedule and six o'clock is dinner time. She stated that we need to work with _her_ schedule, since she is so busy."

"Doing what?"

"I'm sure I don't know, sir. Plotting to find a way to take him from us? Obviously, the woman knows how to hold a grudge, Master Bruce. It's been over a year since she was your date to that party!"

Bruce opened his mouth but Alfred continued.

"And she had the _gall_ to say that if we cared for the boy at all, we would do what was in his best interest. Which, apparently, is dropping whatever we're doing in order for her to visit!"

Alfred was ranting now, and so upset that he had left out his customary 'sir' in the second half of his short speech.

"He's got a bullet hole in his shoulder and a giant, hand-shaped bruise on his cheek," Bruce whispered in horror. "She's…we won't stand a chance when she sees those!"

"We just won't wrap my shoulder on Monday. I wear shirts with sleeves, she won't notice if there's no bulky wrap."

The trembling voice came from behind them. Dick was on the bottom step of the stairs, his eyes full of distress.

"And I'll leave Bat-ice on my face for the whole weekend. It'll be gone by then, right? I know it will, it _has_ to be!"

The boy suddenly burst into tears. Bruce rushed to his side and gathered him into his own arms. He wanted to assure his ward that everything was going to be fine. If the Bat-ice didn't work quickly enough, however, he was pretty sure that _nothing_ was going to be fine.

"Your shoulder won't be healed by Monday, kiddo. If it starts bleeding…"

"I'll keep it wrapped during school and take it off just before she gets here," Dick said, his quiet voice full of fear. "She can't take me, Bruce, I can't go there! Please don't let it happen, I want to stay here!"

His voice was full of panic now. Dick was absolutely positive that if Miss Jameson decided to take him from here, she would put him in the detention center.

"Hey, chum, don't panic, it's okay," Bruce said, attempting to reassure his ward. "We'll keep the Bat-ice on it, like you said, and if it's not faded enough on Monday we'll figure out a way to cover it up. It will be okay."

"Perhaps, Master Bruce, you two could start some sort of project. Build a birdhouse, paint a wall, something that will ensure some splatters of red paint on certain places of Master Dick's body."

Alfred's voice was much calmer now. They needed ideas and this was the first thing that had popped into his mind. Dick could wear an old shirt with a dollop of red paint on the left shoulder. If his injury did begin to lightly bleed, it would not be noticed. And most children, when they use paint, end up with flecks or spots on their hands and faces. Those would cover up the faint outline of a Bruce Wayne-sized handprint on the boy's cheek.

"Begin work on it today," the butler continued, "take Monday off and continue to work on it when Master Dick gets home from school. Time will definitely slip your mind, Master Bruce, because of your focus on the project you are doing with your ward."

"She'll get here and we'll be surprised that it's already six o'clock," Bruce murmured in agreement.

"Exactly, Master Bruce. If you'll excuse me, I will go retrieve some ice from downstairs."

Glancing up at his butler, who was standing nearby with his hands clasped behind his back, Bruce replied, "Thank you, Alfred."

He turned back to Dick and asked, "What do you think, kiddo? Should we start a project with red paint."

The boy, instead of verbally answering, threw his uninjured arm around the man's neck and squeezed as if his life depended on it.

"I'll take that as a yes," Bruce chuckled quietly. "What do you want to do?"

"Well," the ten-year-old answered with a sniffle, "I never hear any birds so a birdhouse would be pointless."

His face was buried in the crook of his guardian's neck and the words were muffled. But Bruce got the gist of it and nodded in agreement.

"The walls here are super big and wouldn't you have a painter come do that, anyway?"

Bruce nodded again and began racking his brain for some kind of project they could begin immediately.

"It has to be something big," the man stated, "because you wouldn't get paint all over you if we just paint a picture."

"Unless," Dick stated as he lifted his head, "we're painting a _big_ picture! Like a long poster, a banner! When is Alfred's birthday?" he asked, a touch of excitement in his voice.

"Not until August," Bruce replied with a smidgen of frustration in his tone. "That was a good idea, though."

"Why didn't we celebrate?"

"Master Dick, you were just ending a five-month journey of physical therapy appointments to repair major damage to your young body. Do you honestly think we cared about my birthday, young sir?" Alfred stated as he returned with a package of Bat-ice.

"But…"

"And that is something we should not be focused on right now, Master Dick. We need a project."

The butler handed the Bat-ice to the boy and Dick immediately pushed it against his cheek as hard as he could.

"Easy, kiddo," Bruce advised. "Don't push so hard. Pressure, yes, but not so much that you give yourself a Bat-ice bruise."

"Okay," Dick agreed as he relaxed his hand a little.

"Alfred, you know how to draw," Bruce commented.

"If you count stick figures then, yes, Master Bruce, you're correct. And animals, sir."

"I've seen you draw actual people."

"That was a long time ago, sir," Alfred stated quietly. "And it is a story that is best left behind us."

"Maybe you could draw something on the wall in the gym that we can then paint?"

"I don't know, Master Bruce. Drawing something big enough for paint to be splattered on clothes will take time. I don't even know what I could draw."

"Them?" Dick whispered. "Can you draw…Mom and Dad…flying?"

Alfred glanced at Bruce, looking for a positive confirmation. The younger man nodded.

"I can try, Master Dick. Do you have something I can copy – a picture of them flying on the trapeze, perhaps?"

"Not of an actual performance but I have a publicity flyer. Will that work?"

"Yes, young sir. But perhaps, Master Bruce, you should have a backup plan. I cannot guarantee anything, even for Master Dick. It may come out looking like a pair of elephants jumping on a tree."

Dick burst out laughing at the image that popped into his mind.

"Maybe you should just do a jungle scene instead," he giggled. "Something that you are confident you can do. I don't want you to be stressed out."

_I'm already stressed out._

Alfred kept that thought to himself. However, Dick had a point. The butler was much more comfortable drawing animals than people. And he didn't want to draw a picture of the Flying Graysons if he could not do it properly. That was a job best left for a professional artist.

"I think a jungle scene is great idea!" Bruce exclaimed, trying to keep his voice light.

The thought – no, the fact – that Dick could be taken from him had already filled his chest with a solid ball of dread. If Alfred wasn't confident about his ability to draw people, they should go with animals. Whatever made it easiest for all of them.

"Cool!"

"Lots of animals that need color, Alfred."

"Of course, sir. Master Dick can be spotted with more than just red paint. This does mean that meals will be smaller until I finish, Master Bruce."

"We can take care of ourselves, Alfred."

"NO!" the butler exclaimed. "Please stay out of the kitchen, both of you. I would rather prepare meals and have very _little_ to clean up than allow you to prepare them and have a kitchen that looks like a grocery store exploded in it. Sir."

"Okay," Bruce replied with a self-deprecating grin.

"Okay," Dick responded sadly.

"It is nothing against you, Master Dick. It will just be faster for me to do everything all at once."

"But we can clean up for you, right?" the ten-year-old inquired.

"I clean as I go, young sir, but thank you for the kind offer. I shall prepare breakfast and begin drawing immediately thereafter, sirs. Please excuse me."

"Thank you, Alfred, for both the idea and being willing to draw."

"I would do anything in my power to keep Master Dick here with us, sir."

"Thanks, Alfred," Dick whispered.

The butler gave them both a quick but polite nod and went to the kitchen.

"I want to check that shoulder, Dick."

The boy began lifting his shirt, but Bruce held up his hand.

"Not right here, downstairs," he stated with a slight grin.

Shaking his head at what he considered to be his stupidity, Dick turned toward the service elevator. To his surprise, Bruce joined him, and they descended to the Batcave.

The man led the boy to a medical table, where he unwrapped the wound. Dick's shoulder was red and slightly swollen. He flinched and gasped when his guardian gently patted it with one finger.

"Scale of one to ten, kiddo. How much does it hurt? And be honest, forget about your high pain tolerance for now."

"When you touched it – ten. But before that it was maybe eight?"

"We're going to have to put it in a sling," Bruce sighed. "You can't be walking around with a day-old bullet wound that's at an eight."

"Um, I meant six."

"Dick, I would put you in a sling even if it was a three. Don't try to get out of it. We need to keep it stabilized."

"But I can't wear it to school!" Dick nearly shouted. "People will know, _she_ will find out! Then our plan will be ruined and she'll take me away!"

Bruce sighed again; his ward had a point.

"Whenever you're at home, it stays on. Try to keep your left arm as still as possible while you're at school. And it goes back on as soon as you get home."

"Except on Monday."

"We'll keep it on until five-thirty. At least you'll be stabilized for a couple of hours before we act out our drama."

"I'm scared, Bruce," the boy confessed softly. "What if it doesn't work? What if she just decides to take me away right then? What if…"

"Let's not think about 'what ifs' and focus on our plan. We're going to start painting as soon as Alfred is done with his drawing. The first thing we'll do is put red paint on the shoulder. As soon as you get home on Monday, you'll change into the painting clothes you wear today. Then we'll add an extra strip of paint on the sleeve so it can dry."

"What if she checks my homework?! I should do my homework."

"Good point. After we put the paint on, do your homework. Then we'll go to the gym, where you will sit and watch while I paint some more. We can't take the chance that you'll start bleeding. So, we're going to keep that shoulder immobile until we absolutely have to take everything off."

"At five-thirty."

"Yes. If you're still bruised, we'll add flecks of paint on your hands and face."

"What about at school? I can't have spots of paint to cover up the bruise at school!"

"It's a good thing you're so smart, chum. You're thinking of things that probably wouldn't occur to me until Monday right before I send you off to school."

"Maybe I shouldn't go on Monday."

"That would be too suspicious for her. She would automatically assume that something is wrong."

"Maybe it won't matter because the bruise will be gone."

"That would be great but we have to have a plan in case it hasn't disappeared yet. Let me think about it for a little while."

During the conversation Bruce had been wrapping the injured shoulder and now he was carefully placing it in a sling.

"Let's go eat breakfast. I'm sure Alfred is already in the gym."

"Okay."

Dick slid off the table and they went back to the service elevator. One minute later they were silently eating breakfast, both trying to find a solution to the problem of a lingering bruise.

Ten minutes after that, they were in the gym, staring in awe at Alfred's artwork on the wall. He had finished a large howler monkey and was working on a macaw.

"Howlers are not bright red, like fresh blood, but everyone has creative freedom, Master Bruce," Alfred stated from his place on the stepladder.

"How did you know we were here?" Dick asked in amazement. "We didn't make any sound at all!"

"I told you, Dick. Alfred notices _everything_."

"I'll be drawing several other birds, as well as a panda – which is also a soft red but, again, creative freedom, sirs."

"Just…red?" Bruce asked, his voice somewhat timid.

"Of course not, Master Bruce. I'm planning an elephant, giraffe and a small lion pride. And a few birds that don't have to be specifically red. We must have other colors so that she doesn't suspect we are trying to disguise anything, sir."

"Right, of course," Bruce replied.

"Come here please, Master Dick. I'm sure I have the correct height but it's always better to check."

Dick obediently walked over and stood next to the wall. He was face to face with the howler monkey and the tail of the macaw ended just above his head.

"Perfect," the butler murmured to himself. "Both of these could cause paint to land on the boy's shoulders and face."

"I'm right here," Dick said with a laugh.

"Of course, Master Dick, I didn't mean to ignore your presence."

"We'll leave you to it, Alfred. You obviously don't need any help from us."

"Thank you, Master Bruce, I will see you both at lunchtime."

* * *

**Several hours later:**

Lunchtime came and went without an appearance from the butler. Bruce blatantly disobeyed Alfred's instructions in order to make sandwiches for both himself and Dick. He left the kitchen as neat as he had found it, with the exception of a knife in the sink and several tiny crumbs on the counter.

Not having the use of his left arm was a struggle for Dick. He couldn't run through the house, he couldn't do any movement-oriented activities and he definitely couldn't go use the gym. The ten-year-old soon became bored with the card games and his eyes were tired from reading three books.

"The more you keep it stabilized, the quicker it will heal," Bruce commented when he noticed the frustration radiating from his ward's eyes.

Dick groaned in response. Then he thought of something, and his eyes widened.

"I have PE on Monday, Bruce!" he exclaimed.

"I'll write you a note, excusing you because you're feeling a bit sick."

"Do you think she'll check with school before she comes here? Do you think she'll talk to my teachers and find out everything about my day? Do I have to act like I'm not feeling well? What if she thinks I'm not feeling well because of something you did?"

Dick's voice was frantic and the questions were flying out of his mouth.

"Hold on, chum, calm down."

"_I_ _can't calm down_!" the boy yelled. "She's going to find out, she's going to take me away, I don't want to go there!"

"I need you to calm down and think so we can fix this. Do you have any idea what you might be doing in PE?"

"We've been playing kickball and soccer. I don't know if we're doing it again."

"Perfect," Bruce mumbled sarcastically. "Running sports."

"Will something happen to my arm if I run around? Other than it hurting because it's moving, I mean?"

"There's a slight chance that it could begin lightly bleeding."

"But we're wrapping it for school, right? So that will stop it, right?"

"Well," Bruce sighed, "we can't wrap it too much because somebody will notice that one of your shoulders is bigger than the other. If it does begin bleeding, it won't take long for the blood to soak through the bandage. We might have to use Bat-wrap."

"Or maybe just Bat-gauze covered by normal wrap?"

"Good idea, we'll do that. Just be careful and try not to let anyone bump into you."

"Maybe we won't even be doing running sports," Dick said optimistically. "Maybe it will be something easy, like playing with the parachute!"

"That would be nice," Bruce replied with a grin. "Let's hope for that."

* * *

**Several hours later:**

Alfred finally emerged from the gym at exactly six o'clock.

"Master Bruce!" he exclaimed when he noticed the time. "Why didn't you come get me, sir?!"

"I didn't want to disturb you, Alfred, because we need this done as soon as possible."

"It's done, sir."

"Really?!"

"Really, Master Bruce. Where is Master Dick?"

"I'm here, Alfred," Dick groaned from his usual chair in the living room.

"Is something wrong, young sir?" the butler asked, alarmed at the tone.

"He's bored," Bruce explained quietly.

"Ah, yes, it must be quite difficult to remain still when he is such an exuberant, athletic child, sir."

"Come on, Dick," Bruce called as he nodded at Alfred in agreement. "Let's go see Alfred's masterpiece!"

The ten-year-old slowly came out of the living room, doing his best to keep his left arm completely motionless. They all went to the gym, where Bruce and Dick stared at the scene in astonishment.

It took up almost the entire western wall. There were all the animals Alfred had mentioned and several more that he had decided on later. Trees of all varieties were spread around the animals and Bruce noticed a plethora of tall redwoods. And it really was a masterpiece. Some animals were captured in motion while others were resting, the leaves of the taller trees were swaying in what was obviously a slight wind, and the small bugs were detailed to perfection.

"Wow," Dick breathed, awe-struck at Alfred's hidden talent.

"Indeed," Bruce agreed softly.

"Can we start now?" Dick asked excitedly.

"May I remind you, Master Dick, that it is dinner time and your arm needs to heal. You will not be doing much painting this weekend, I'm afraid."

"But…but it's so amazing!" he exclaimed, disappointment filling the words. "And I'm supposed to have paint on my painting clothes before Monday!"

"I said 'much', young sir. Of course you will have to do some, but don't expect me to allow you to paint for more than half an hour."

"Bruuuuuce," Dick nearly whined.

"Sorry, chum, he's right. But," Bruce glanced at his butler, "it has to be at least a quarter of the way done. Otherwise she might suspect that we started it just because we found out she was coming."

"Which means you get to paint a lot," the boy muttered.

"Well, the sooner we get that arm healed, the sooner you'll be able to paint. So, temporary disappointment will soon be replaced with pain-free painting. I'm not going to do the whole thing, kiddo. We'll work on it together, after you're healed."

"Except for Monday."

"Yes, except for Monday. But even then you'll only paint a little bit, just enough so that she thinks you are perfectly fine. Alfred, perhaps you should bring her to the gym after inviting her in. Then she'll see it for herself."

"An excellent idea, Master Bruce. And now, if you'll please excuse me, I must go clean up and prepare a quick dinner."

"Thank you again, Alfred. This is amazing."

"My pleasure, sir," the butler replied with a satisfied smile.


	22. Chapter 22

**Monday morning – Gotham Elementary:**

Dick had been lucky. They had taken a short quiz in PE, all about muscles and bones. There hadn't been time for much of anything else by the time everyone was done with the quiz, so the kids had been given free time. Six and a half minutes worth of free time that Dick spent talking to a friend and doing his best to keep his left arm completely still.

Lunch was a little worrisome. He had been accidentally bumped by the kid who was in line behind him and had to bite his tongue to keep from gasping in pain. And then one of his friends had given him a light, friendly punch on the shoulder after telling the kids at their table a joke. Dick had almost cried out in pain but covered it by saying he had swallowed something wrong.

He went to the bathroom directly after lunch to check the injury. There was a small spot of red showing through the wrap so he decided to skip lunch recess. Carefully, he folded the lower half-inch of the material up over the wound, so the blood wouldn't get on his shirt. The last thing he needed was to be sent to the nurse.

During math, his teacher had patted his shoulder after handing him the weekly packet. Dick had to bite his tongue again, and this time he tasted blood. She didn't notice his flinch or the grimace of pain that took the place of his usual half-hearted grin.

The ten-year-old sighed in relief when the bell rang to end the school day. He walked slowly enough that he was at the end of the line to get on the bus. It was on purpose; he wanted to be able to choose the spot that would be least dangerous for his arm, which meant an aisle seat. Unfortunately, the fact that there were two new kids on his route meant that there were no spots left.

"Um, where do I sit?" Dick quietly asked the driver after staring at the seats for a full fifteen seconds.

The driver, surprised at the question since it came from such an intelligent child, turned back to look at the kids. The boy was right, there were no open spots.

"Well, I guess we'll have to squeeze you in somewhere," the man stated with a sigh.

He went down the aisle and began shifting kids around. Soon he had two small first graders on one bench. That left just enough space for Dick to be able to sit on the edge of the seat. A second unfortunate thing came from that: the first grader sitting next to him was petrified of riding in a bus. Usually, she held onto the arm of her best friend. That person had been moved to a different spot, so Dick's left arm became her lifeline.

Dick's nostrils flared as he tried to breathe through the pain. He took deep breaths, forcing himself to focus on that instead of the sharp sword that was continually poking his shoulder. The bus went over a bump; the little girl whimpered and squeezed his arm in fear.

The pressure made him light-headed as the imaginary sword jammed itself through his shoulder and up into his brain. Dick was gasping now – he couldn't stop himself – but was able to keep the sound nearly inaudible. After what seemed to him like three days, the bus arrived at Wayne Manor.

"This is my stop," he whispered to the girl. "You have to let go so I can get off. You'll be okay, don't worry."

She nodded and let go as a silent tear slid down her cheek.

"Hey, don't cry, you're going to be fine," Dick said gently. "He's a great driver, we've never even been close to an accident or anything."

She sniffed and nodded again. There was nothing more he could do for her, so he stood up. He swayed and almost fell right back down. Closing his eyes, the boy grabbed the seat in front of him and took a deep breath.

"Let's go, Grayson," the driver called.

Dick opened his eyes and made his way down the aisle, grabbing every seat on his right side in an attempt to stay upright.

"Thanks," he stated somewhat breathlessly as he climbed down the stairs and exited the bus.

"Yep," the driver replied, as he did every day when the polite ten-year-old thanked him. "See you tomorrow."

The doors closed, the bus left, and Dick dropped to his knees. He closed his eyes again and tried to keep his breathing even. But the pain was intense and he was feeling more than just a little dizzy. If he could just get to the house, everything would be fine….

* * *

"Alfred, is Dick home yet?"

"No, Master Bruce, but perhaps the bus is running a little late. He should be here within five minutes."

"I'm going to go out and watch for him. Hopefully he was able to get through the day without anything happening to his arm."

Without waiting for an answer, Bruce strode to the front door and opened it. He stopped, squinted, mumbled something to himself and then yelled into the house.

"He's had a bad day, Alfred! We're going to need some pain medicine and that sling!"

Again without waiting for an answer, Bruce sprinted across the lawn to his ward. Dick was still on his knees with his head dropped, cradling his left arm and attempting to calm down enough to stand up and get to the house.

Suddenly Bruce was there, and Dick looked at up him with relief. Tears were threatening to spill from his eyes and his previous gasping was becoming hyperventilation.

"Hurts," he mumbled as he dropped his head again.

And then Alfred was there, holding a small tablet and the sling. He slid the medicine into Dick's mouth, distracting him while Bruce put the boy's arm in the sling as gently as possible.

Slowly and carefully, Bruce helped his ward stand up. Dick wanted to collapse and just sleep forever, but knew that Miss Jameson was coming tonight. He stood up as tall as he could and began walking toward the Manor, Bruce on his right and Alfred a step behind.

Fifteen seconds after they began the trek across the massive lawn, Bruce grabbed the boy's uninjured arm. Dick's legs were shaking and he was minutely swaying. The touch on his arm grounded him, and he forced the pain to the back of his mind.

Thirty seconds after that they were inside. Dick sat on the couch and leaned back, closing his eyes. Bruce, deciding they could always buy a new 'Jurassic Park' t-shirt, had grabbed scissors on the way to the living room.

"This is going to hurt for a minute, chum," he stated as he gradually removed the injured arm from the sling.

He laid the appendage on the boy's lap then cut the sleeve open. There was a large circle of red on the bandage wrapped around his shoulder and a thin river of drying blood snaking down his arm.

"Doing okay?" Bruce murmured as he carefully cut through the material.

"Mmmph," Dick responded.

Bruce glanced up. The boy's face was pale, he was sweating, and his jaw was clenched. He was definitely not doing okay.

"I need you to sit up so we can re-wrap it."

Alfred handed Bruce a large square of Bat-gauze as the younger man helped the ten-year-old sit up. Dick kept his eyes closed and began taking deep breaths.

"That's right, kiddo, keep doing exactly that."

Bruce pushed the Bat-gauze against the wound and Alfred swiftly enveloped the shoulder in a new bandage.

_He's not going to make it through the visit._

_He's strong, sir, and it is very important to him._

_He's white as a ghost. I'm pretty sure she'll notice that._

_He is stronger than you think, Master Bruce._

_At least the handprint is gone._

"Done?" Dick whispered, interrupting the silent conversation between the men.

"Yes," Bruce replied.

Opening his eyes, Dick stated, "Guess I better go get dressed in those painting clothes, then."

Bruce reached for the sling but the boy shook his head.

"I don't want to have to take it off again. Please, it's only for a few hours."

"Okay," the man agreed.

"I took the liberty of gathering your clothing, young sir."

Without anyone noticing, Alfred had disappeared and was now back. In his hands were Dick's painting clothes.

"Thanks," Dick mumbled, slowly standing up.

"Alfred, pull the curtains. Dick, we'll give you privacy, just change right here. The less you move around the better."

"K," the boy whispered.

It took him five minutes just to change his pants. The men helped him with his shirt.

"We're going to go to the gym right now and just stay there, okay? The more rest you get, the easier it will be for you to play your part. I would rather not have you out of breath from stumbling to the gym right before she comes."

"Yeah," Dick agreed softly.

The gym was only three doors down the hall but it took them nearly two minutes to get there. They moved slowly and stopped every few steps so Dick could get control of his breathing. When they arrived, Bruce lowered his ward onto one of the benches and went to get the bucket of red paint.

"Do it," Dick demanded when his guardian hesitated.

Reluctantly, but knowing it was necessary, Bruce swiped the paintbrush down the boy's sleeve. To his relief, he didn't even touch the arm, but just the ripple of the material caused Dick to clench his jaw.

"Dick, we can ask to reschedule."

"She'll suspect something is wrong. I'll just sit here until five-thirty when it's time to unwrap it. At least you don't have to paint my cheeks," the boy ended with a slight grin.

"Master Bruce, you need to get some work done. It is already after four, sir."

Nodding, the millionaire got to work. He painted the macaw the same color he had just used on Dick then painted the elephant so there was some contrast. Bruce had just finished the third lion in the pride when the doorbell rang.

He glanced at his watch, hoping it wasn't six o'clock. It was five-thirty and Dick was already removing his shirt.

"Yes, Miss Jameson, they are currently in the gym, working on a project," Alfred said loudly.

Bruce and Dick looked at each other, both sets of blue eyes wide in horror. She was early and Dick's shoulder was still wrapped! His shirt was off and he was panting from the pain caused by removing it.

The man was suddenly by his side.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as he quickly tore the wrapping off.

"Hurry," Dick whispered back, panic in his voice.

They jammed his shirt back on when they heard two pairs of footsteps coming down the hall. Tears of pain welled up in the boy's eyes but he willed them away. He forced himself to stand up and walk across the room. Grabbing a paint brush in his right hand, he dipped it in the green bucket and began swiping at what he thought was a tree.

"Dick!" Bruce exclaimed quietly.

The boy was painting a zebra, not a tree.

_Creative freedom_.

That was the man's only thought as he raced to join his ward. He dipped his in green, also, and began working on an actual tree.

Everything was blurry to him but Dick didn't care. He was attempting to control his breathing, and not cry, and not collapse, and not do anything wrong in front of _her_.

At that very moment, Alfred arrived and allowed Susan Jameson to enter the gym. Bruce and Dick both glanced back with surprise on their faces.

"Miss Jameson!" Bruce stated innocently. "You're early! I haven't had time to clean up our mess, or myself," he said with a chuckle.

"Or, apparently, your _ward_," Susan replied haughtily.

"Well, what do you think?" Bruce asked, stepping back as if to examine their work.

"It's…interesting," she responded. "But why is the boy painting a zebra green?"

Dick looked back at the wall and squinted his eyes. Was he really painting a _zebra_?

_Shoot. She's going to think something is wrong with me._

"His name is Dick," Bruce nearly growled through his smile. "And he's standing right here with us so you can ask him. I can't read his mind," he ended with a forced laugh.

"Come here," she commanded and Dick, assuming she meant him, turned around.

He put down his paintbrush and slowly strode across the room. Every step was like a knife jabbing itself into his shoulder but he wasn't going to allow _her_ to see that.

"Bruce, Alfred, I will speak to the boy alone now. Give me ten minutes."

She shooed them out the door then sat down on one of the benches. Motioning to Dick, she patted the seat next to her and waited for him to obey.

"Now," Susan began after he had sat down, "why are you in here painting a zebra green?"

"Well, um, Bruce and I are working on a project. Alfred drew the picture and we're painting it. We like to do stuff together."

"Oh, do you now?"

"Yes."

"And what kinds of 'stuff' do you do together?"

"Uh, this project and we play cards and…"

"Cards!" Susan exclaimed in shock. "Is Mr. Wayne teaching you _card_ games?!"

"No, um, I taught him," the boy answered quietly, slightly confused at the astonishment in the woman's voice. "The game is called 'War' and I learned it in the circus. My parents and I…we used to play…."

"You know that Mr. Wayne is not your parent, right? Tell me, why would he stoop to playing a circus card game?"

"I know he's not my father but he's like a parent," Dick growled defensively. "And he's not stooping to anything. It doesn't matter to him that I learned it in the circus. He plays with me anyway."

"Oh, so he plays with you, does he?"

"Yes, we play cards and board games and we work out in here and he watches me practice my tumbling and…"

"And when you work out and tumble, do you wear some sort of costume? Does he enjoy seeing you in these costumes?"

"What are you…"

Dick trailed off when he realized what she meant. It was like that day on the playground all over again. Almost forgotten details delivered to him by one of his peers quickly resurfaced and he had to force away a shudder.

"Grayson," she began as she laid her hand on his left shoulder, "you can tell me. I'm here to listen to you, to find out what's going on in your life. I can tell you're holding something back. What is Mr. Wayne doing to you?"

He stiffened at her touch, but the change was so small that she didn't notice it. He felt the liquid that dribbled out of his shoulder and really hoped that it wouldn't travel down his arm.

Removing her hand, Susan grabbed Dick's chin and tilted his head to one side and then the other. His face was pale, she noticed, and he was sweating.

"Are you nervous?" she asked sweetly. "You're awfully pale and warm."

"I've been painting," he answered, trying to remain calm and _not_ begin gasping in pain. "We've done a good job, don't you think?"

"I doubt you meant to use the word 'we'," she replied. "You've probably done the whole thing yourself. How long has it taken you? Never mind, let's get back to my question. What is Mr. Wayne doing to you?"

"He's taking care of me," Dick almost snapped. "I'm safe and I go to school and I'm well-fed…"

"You don't look well-fed," she interrupted harshly. "In fact, you look rather underfed."

"I'm not!" Dick nearly yelled. "I just have a fast metabolism because I'm so active!"

"Did Mr. Wayne tell you to say that?"

"No! I learned that from Mr. Haly!"

"Now, now, you shouldn't yell at adults. Obviously Mr. Wayne has not taught you that."

Susan had a notebook in her hand. She took a pen out of her purse and scribbled something down.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to yell. It's just that you're being kind of mean to Bruce…"

"Excuse me?!" she snapped. "So, Bruce has tried to turn you against me? Well, let's get into the _real_ questions then. Does Mr. Wayne ever leave you alone in the house?"

"No, if he's gone then Alfred is here."

"Have you ever been injured while in his care?"

"No."

"I have it on good authority that you were in the hospital last year."

"Yes, but that wasn't because of Bruce."

"Where was he when you were injured?"

"At work but it happened because I missed the bus!"

"And he allows you to just miss the bus?"

"It wasn't his fault! I was talking to somebody and I didn't notice that the bus had left!"

"So he doesn't keep track of you, that's what you're saying?"

"No, I didn't say that! It's my responsibility to get on the bus!"

"So he's neglected to teach you responsibility, then."

"NO! You're twisting everything around! _I_ missed the bus, _my_ fault, and the brother of one of my peers offered to give me a ride. But he _lied_ and took me to the circus grounds instead!"

"And Bruce didn't even notice that you were gone. You said 'peers'. Do you not have any friends?"

"Yes, I do have friends!" Dick nearly shouted again, hoping that she would ignore the fact that he didn't respond to her first comment.

"So you're saying that somebody else hurt you at the circus grounds. Tell me why, then, was it Bruce Wayne who took you to the hospital?"

"It wasn't Bruce, it was Batman! Batman found me and he took me to the hospital and Bruce came as soon as he found out I was there!"

"I can check with the hospital, you know. They will have to answer my questions about that night."

"Good, go ahead, because they'll tell you it was _BATMAN_ who brought me there!"

"Calm down, child, for heaven's sake. You are a rude little thing, aren't you!"

"No, I don't…you're just messing everything up!"

"I'm just repeating what you're telling me."

"No matter what I say you're going to try to turn it around into something it's not. And whatever you turn it into will be bad for Bruce. Why are you even here if you don't care what I say?"

"I've been listening to you. I've heard every single word you've said," Susan countered.

"Listening and hearing are different from understanding and caring. You hear what you want to hear, which is not what I'm telling you. Bruce is the best guardian I could ever ask for but you don't care. I don't know why you don't like him but that shouldn't be a factor because you're supposed to be understanding _me_, not trying to find things to use against _him_!"

"How dare you imply such a thing! Obviously you have no manners, although that shouldn't surprise me since you live with _him_. I've half a mind to take you away right now, without even talking to them."

"You can't do that!"

"I can and I will if you don't tell me the truth!"

"I have been!" Dick yelled.

He had tried to hold himself back but he was at the end of his taut rope. The frustration got the better of him and he immediately regretted his action.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have yelled at you," he stated quietly, dropping his eyes to the ground.

"You're so shy when you're apologizing," she commented. "Tell me, are you not allowed to look at him when you make him mad?"

"_WHAT_!?" Dick exploded, lifting his head and glaring into her eyes.

"Oh my, temper, temper," she stated, shaking her head and writing something down in her notebook.

"Why are you being so mean?!" he asked loudly. "Why can't you just accept that Bruce is amazing and leave us alone?!"

"Leave you alone?!" she nearly shouted back. "Bruce Wayne is the most selfish, uncaring, idiotic playboy I've ever seen. A _child_ should not be forced to live in his household, especially one as young as you!"

"He's not selfish and you're bringing your personal feelings into what is supposed to be a conversation about how I'm doing! You don't even care about me!"

And that's when she slapped him. It was so fast that he didn't see it coming. It was so hard that it left his cheek stinging and flung his chin over his shoulder. And that's when he burst into tears.

Susan Jameson realized what she had just done and stared at her now-reddened hand in shock. How was she going to explain _this_ to her boss? Well, actually, it was her word against that of a _child_. Who would her boss believe – one of his best employees or a strange boy that he didn't even know?

"You will not tell anybody about what just happened," she commanded.

"He might not, but I will!" Bruce snarled as he stalked into the gym.

* * *

Alfred and Bruce went straight to the study, where they could view what was happening through the cameras. And right away they knew it was all going south.

She led Dick from trap to trap, twisting his words around and confusing him. When she said Bruce was 'stooping' to play a card game, the millionaire almost headed to the gym right then. Alfred held him back, knowing that any interruption could only hurt them.

She implied that he was Bruce's 'toy' and the men immediately noticed the change in the boy's expression. That had hit close to home and Alfred had to hold Bruce back again. Both men growled as they saw him flinch when she grabbed his shoulder. Then, when the woman stated that Dick looked underfed, it was Bruce that had to hold Alfred back.

Slight grins appeared on the faces of both men when Dick explained exactly what she was doing. Pride lit up Alfred's eyes and astonishment raced through those of Bruce when the ten-year-old said that Bruce was the best guardian he could ever want.

"She can't do that!" the younger man snapped when Susan threatened to take Dick out of the house right then.

"I'm afraid she can, sir," the butler commented quietly.

Now Dick was yelling at her and the men shook their heads. This was not going well at all. And then she slapped him. Both men froze, shocked at the action. The thing that unfroze them was the sound of Dick bursting into tears.

Bruce stormed out of the study and ran to the gym. Susan was almost growling at Dick when the man arrived, her tone threatening but her voice slightly shaky. Apparently she had shocked herself, also.

"You will not tell anybody about what just happened."

"He might not, but I will!"

Bruce was furious and everything about him showed it. His body was tense, a Bat-glare was radiating from his dark-blue eyes, his hands were balled into fists and his jaw was tightly clenched. He took a deep breath as he glanced at Dick, checking to see if his boy was okay.

"It's my word against his, _Bruce_," she replied haughtily. "Neither you nor Alfred were in here and nobody's going to believe a child."

"Unless he is backed up by video evidence," the man stated, his tone much calmer. "You see that?" he asked, pointing to the corner of the gym just to the left of them. "That's called a video camera, and it just recorded you slapping my ward."

"I…no…" she sputtered, trying to find a way around this new problem.

"Get out of my house," Bruce commanded, his tone full of fury. "And take yourself off his case. Give it to someone else and leave us alone."

Now it was Susan who burst into tears. Standing up, she fled through the door and out of the house. Bruce ignored her and rushed to Dick's side.

The boy was quietly crying and cradling his arm again. Alfred, always prepared, had entered with a new bandage, the sling, a small pack of ice for the cheek, and a chewable tablet for the pain.

"I messed it all up, she's going to tell people that everything's bad here," Dick cried softly. "I was telling the truth but she kept making it sound like I was lying for you. They're going to come for me, I _know_ they will! I messed everything up!"

"Dick, you didn't mess anything up. She was trying to confuse and frustrate you."

"It was working," the ten-year-old admitted with a sniffle.

_Yes, we could certainly see that._

Bruce kept that thought to himself. Alfred was wrapping the shoulder and Dick was gasping, his face contorted in pain. Bruce took the boy's small right hand in his own, much larger, one.

"Squeeze as hard as you need to, chum. It will be over soon."

"I'm…strong…" Dick panted.

"You sure are, kiddo. I'm not sure we even know how strong you are yet. You continue to surprise me, every day."

Alfred gently slid the injured arm into the sling and Dick was finally able to marginally relax.

"She…_slapped_ me!" he exclaimed quietly, sounding as if he had just realized that fact. "Will she get in trouble?"

"Only if we show the video to Commissioner Gordon and decide to press charges against her. Which we probably won't, unless she doesn't do what I told her to do."

"What?" Dick asked.

"I told her to give your case to someone else. I'll call tomorrow afternoon to find out who your new case manager is. If she hasn't taken herself off, then I'll pay a visit to the commissioner. If she has, then we'll let it go. She made a mistake and, although I really want to, Alfred will _kill_ me if I ruin her career."

"The man in question is standing right next to you, Master Bruce, and that is an excellent observation. It was an egregious error, sir, but not one that should define the rest of her life."

"_You're_ going to let it go?!" Dick exclaimed incredulously.

"Is that really so shocking?" Bruce asked in surprise.

"Well, you're just so…_protective_. After living with you for a year, I never would have guessed that you would let someone get away with slapping me! You haven't even forgiven yourself and you _had_ to do it!"

"You're right," Bruce growled, his entire demeanor changing.

"No, Bruce, no, that's not what…"

"She committed a crime," he stated as he stood up.

"Good heavens, boys," Alfred murmured. "That's enough, Master Bruce," he said calmly. "Yes, she did, but we have just discussed this and the matter has been settled. You will not be showing any video to the commissioner because I am confident that she will remove herself from the case as soon as she gets in tomorrow."

"She _slapped_ him, Alfred!"

"And it was a heat-of-the-moment decision that she immediately regretted, sir."

"But then she threatened him!"

"Her tone was threatening, Master Bruce, not her words."

"Bruce, come on, she didn't mean to. I was frustrated, she was upset, something was bound to happen. But like Alfred said, you already decided to let it go. So…let it go. I'm sorry for accidentally putting the idea in your mind."

"None of this is your fault, chum," Bruce snarled, "and…"

"MASTER BRUCE!" Alfred nearly thundered. "Sit down and calm yourself. You will _not_ go talk to the commissioner and you will _not_ pay her any type of visit! Is that understood?!"

Dick stared at Alfred in astonishment. Bruce recognized the tone and quickly sat down. Alfred had only used that tone twice – well, now three times – in Bruce's entire life. And both previous times had been when Batman was about to go on a rampage because of a horrific incident involving innocent citizens. A rampage that could lead to a broken rule, Batman's number one rule, which would lead the Caped Crusader down a path of no return.

Bruce hadn't felt like he was heading in that direction but Alfred was able to read him easily enough. If Alfred felt like he needed to use that tone, then Bruce needed to sit down and take some deep breaths and force Batman to leave the conversation.

"Okay," he said after several moments of silence. "We let it go."


	23. Chapter 23

**Three days later:**

Guardian and ward were in the living room, each immersed in a thick book.

"Bruce, is it hard to be Batman?" Dick abruptly inquired.

Bruce thought for a few minutes before replying. It was a somewhat complex question and required a complicated answer. And he had to figure out how to put it in child-friendly terms.

"Yes and no," he finally said. "It's difficult to see all the evil in the world, especially in Gotham City. But it's satisfying when I thwart the carefully-planned crime of a villain. And catching the criminal before anything happens, before any innocent person gets hurt, is like a breath of fresh air. However, there are times when I don't get there quickly enough and then it's like a cloud of smog settles in my chest. Sometimes it hurts to breathe, knowing that if I had been a little faster, arrived a little sooner, the crime could have been prevented. But because I didn't, someone has been robbed, or assaulted or sometimes something worse."

"Oh," the boy stated and then returned to reading his book.

Several minutes later Dick asked, "Did you not have a place to change into Batman?"

"What do you mean?" Bruce replied, a little confused.

"On _that_ night, did you come help me because there was no private spot for you to become Batman?"

_I don't know because I didn't even think about it._

How was he going to give that answer? Instead of Batman going after the killer, Bruce Wayne had gone to the little clump surrounding a newly-orphaned nine-year-old. But Dick wouldn't understand why he had chosen to do that.

"Bruce?"

"I…"

There was a long pause. Dick waited but was becoming impatient. It wasn't a hard question to answer.

"Bruce?" he said again.

"Batman didn't make an appearance because Bruce was drawn to you. I wanted to help _you_. I didn't even think…I mean he was…and you were…"

"Are you saying that you didn't even _try_ to become Batman?!"

With a sigh of regret – he really didn't want to say this – Bruce answered, "Yes."

"But…you're _Batman_! You're supposed to catch criminals! Was the man who murdered two innocent circus performers not important enough to go after?! He _killed_ them!"

"No, I mean, yes, of course he was important. But, I guess I felt that _you_ were more important. And Miss Jameson was ready to take you away, remember? I saved you from going to the detention center."

"You didn't even _try_," Dick whispered, grief in his voice.

"But you were on your way to a place for delinquent children! You could have been beaten, or even killed!"

"You didn't even _TRY_!" the boy yelled.

"Dick, I…you needed a place to go! If Batman had gone after Mack, you might not even be here right now! And the criminal is in jail now anyway!"

"_Because of ME_!" the ten-year-old practically roared.

"Dick…"

"The police didn't do anything, Batman didn't do anything, the only reason you caught him was because of _ME_!"

"If you saw a boy who had just lost his parents, what would _you do_?!" Bruce shouted. "Would you just say 'who cares, I'm going after the criminal instead'? I highly doubt it!"

"But you didn't know she was going to take me there! You could have caught him, _right then_, and I…"

"_STOP_!" Bruce thundered.

Dick was shocked into silence.

"I did what I did and it was over a year ago," the man stated, struggling to calm down. "You need to let it go."

"Like you let yours go?!" the boy demanded heatedly.

"This is not about me!"

"Only because there was no Batman back then! Batman would have gone after the man who killed…"

"_THAT'S ENOUGH_!" Bruce thundered again. "_I don't know what Batman would have done back then but it's a moot point because there was no Batman! You need to think about what you're saying, Dick, before you continue!"_

Just then the doorbell rang. Alfred had gone to town to buy groceries so Bruce was the one who had to answer the door. Taking a deep breath, the man stood up and walked away from his ward.

Whoever it was pounded on the door and yelled, "Open the door now!"

"I'm coming," Bruce grumbled.

He opened the door to a tall, muscular man in a suit and tie. The man was frowning and there was a briefcase by his feet. It was lying on its side, as if he had just dropped it there.

"I need to see Dick Grayson. Immediately," the man commanded.

"And who are you?" Bruce snapped.

The man pulled a small, black ID folder out of his inside jacket pocket. When he flipped it open, Bruce paled noticeably.

Greg Makov, Social Services.

"I'm the boy's new case manager. Please either take me to him or bring him to me."

Pulling the door all the way open, Bruce motioned Greg inside. The man grabbed his briefcase and walked in. Bruce led him to the living room, where Dick was engrossed in his book again.

"Dick Grayson, I assume?" Greg asked.

Dick looked up and nodded, a quizzical look on his face.

"I need you to come with me, son."

"What? Why?" the boy asked.

"I heard a lot of yelling and your _guardian_ looks very unhappy right now. I don't think you are safe here at the moment."

"What?!" Dick exclaimed. "We were having an argument! Everybody has arguments! I was yelling, too!"

Bruce's heart was thumping so hard that he was sure it was going to explode out of his chest. This was his fault; he was the adult, he wasn't supposed to be roaring at his ward.

"And I _am_ safe here!" Dick continued loudly. "Safer than I'll be anywhere else!"

"You don't have a choice, son. I'm taking you to my office and we'll find a suitable place for you until we have investigated this matter. If we deem Mr. Wayne to be unfit…"

"_I'm not your son and I'm not leaving. Bruce would never do anything to hurt me!"_ Dick shouted, fear in his voice.

"Be that as it may, what I heard was too alarming to ignore. Let's go."

Dick stared at Bruce, his eyes pleading for help. The man looked helpless and frustrated. He nodded his head and Dick slowly stood up.

"You'll be back, kiddo. Everything will work out, I'll find a way to fix this," he said softly as Dick walked past him.

"I don't want to leave," Dick stated quietly to both men as several tears trickled down his cheeks. "It was just an argument."

Shaking his head, Greg led Dick out the door. Bruce watched in stunned silence as the case manager put the boy in the back seat of his car and drove away.

"Dick," he whispered despairingly.

* * *

**The office of Greg Makov – thirty minutes later:**

"Sit here," Greg pointed to a chair across from his small desk. "We obviously need to talk."

Dick had been quietly crying during the entire ride. His eyes were wet and red and tear tracks ran in every direction on his cheeks.

Greg handed him a single tissue and said, "I need you to tell me precisely what happened back there. Mr. Wayne sounded very threatening."

The ten-year-old didn't know what to say. He couldn't exactly tell the man that they had been arguing about whether or not Batman should have chased down the killer on _that_ night.

"We were just having an argument," he said softly. "Would you take a kid away from his _parents_ if they had a loud argument?

"Mr. Wayne is not your parent, this is a completely different situation. What were you arguing about?"

Dick remained silent, staring at the floor and allowing the tears to continue sliding down his face.

"I'm here to listen, son," Greg sighed. "You can tell me anything you want without having to worry about repercussions from Mr. Wayne."

Dick looked up and glared at the man.

"I _never_ have to worry about _that_," he growled.

"Okay, good," the man said, picking up a pen and writing something on a piece of paper. "Then you can tell me what you were arguing about, right?"

_No matter what._

Dick was going to protect Batman's identity, no matter what.

"I don't want to talk about it," he mumbled.

"Okay, then let's go in a different direction. Have you and Mr. Wayne ever argued like this before? Does he yell at you often?"

"No."

"No to which question?"

"Both of them."

"I see here that you were in the hospital with a very serious injury last year. Can you tell me about that?"

"I got hurt."

"Yes, that's obvious. What happened?"

"A guy hit me with a tire iron."

Greg gasped in disbelief.

"Not Bruce," Dick immediately clarified.

"Do you want to tell me about it?"

"No."

Dick was sullen now, his voice fluctuating between fear and anger.

"If it wasn't Mr. Wayne, who was it?"

"You probably don't know him."

"We won't know that unless you tell me."

With a giant sigh, Dick stated, "Michael Wickers."

"Dirk Grimhall's older brother?!" Greg asked, astonishment in his voice.

"You know Dirk?"

"I…can't talk about that," the man stated.

Dick shrugged and dropped his eyes to the ground again.

"So, Michael Wickers hit you with a tire iron and you went to the hospital. Approximately how long did it take for Mr. Wayne to arrive? Or is he the one that brought you in?"

"Batman brought me in and I was kind of out of it since I had just had my kneecaps shattered by a rather strong gymnast."

"Oh, my!" Greg murmured as he wrote something else down. "Have you had any other serious injuries while in the care of Mr. Wayne?"

_Yeah, I was beaten by my teacher and whipped by some Australian guy. Then I was shot by the man who killed my parents._

"No," Dick easily lied.

"Do you get enough to eat, enough sleep, do you attend school every day?"

"Yes, yes, and yes," Dick sighed with a roll of his eyes. "Don't you have the papers from Miss Jameson? She interviewed me a couple of days ago."

"I'm sorry, am I annoying you, young man?" Greg asked, his eyebrows raised in surprise. "Yes, I did receive her notes. She did write that you were being rather rude to her."

"She wasn't listening to me," Dick stated, lifting his head again. "I wasn't trying to be rude, I was trying to tell her the truth. But she kept turning everything around because she doesn't like Bruce."

"Do _you_ like Bruce?"

"Yes! He's the best guardian I could ever ask for, he's amazing!"

"Then why was he roaring at you, son?"

"I'm _not_ your son!" Dick yelled. "Stop calling me that!"

"Hmmm," Greg murmured as he wrote on his paper again.

"Sorry," Dick mumbled.

"Do you know who Batman is?" Greg asked, abruptly changing the subject.

"What?! Why would I know that?!"

"I noticed that you were seen talking to him on the playground a while back."

"You _noticed_ that?"

"It was in the notes from Miss Jameson."

"How did she know?"

"Apparently she kept very good tabs on you. She actually had an appointment with Principal Maizer on the day Batman gave his presentation. Tell me, s…Dick, why would Batman kneel in front of you and speak to you one-on-one?"

"I don't know."

"Well, you must remember what you talked about. It's not every day that a boy gets to talk to a hero."

"I don't remember."

"Okay," Greg sighed. "Let's talk about the night your parents died."

"_Why_?!"

"I need to know your emotional state," the man answered with an indifferent shrug.

"Oh, yeah, I was feeling great that night," Dick snapped sarcastically. "Wouldn't you be feeling carefree and happy if it had happened to _your_ parents?!"

"Miss Jameson was right, you do have a temper. I have a note from former principal Mercer, who told her that you were quite the little bully when you first arrived here."

"Oh. My. Gosh," Dick growled, dropping his head into his hands. "It wasn't me," he mumbled through his fingers. "Ask Commissioner Gordon."

"Yes, I suppose I'll have to do that. So, tell me why Mr. Mercer said you were a bully."

Dick lifted his head, tears streaming down his cheeks again, and said, "My teacher hit me sometimes and Mr. Mercer didn't want Bruce to find out. So he somehow altered the school security tapes to make it look like I was trying to fight everyone."

"How long did Mr. Wayne know about this abuse before he decided to contact the school? A week, two weeks, a month?"

"He didn't know about it until I got a black eye."

"So, he didn't care enough to ask about how you were doing at school."

"I didn't tell him!" the ten-year-old yelled. "Mr. Jerkins told me not to or…"

Dick choked on his tears and couldn't continue. Mr. Makov handed him the entire box of tissues this time.

"You've had it pretty rough, haven't you, kiddo," the man commented gently. "Maybe you would be better off starting over in another city. There are several wonderful foster families in Bludhaven."

"I don't want to start over," Dick cried morosely. "I want to stay with Bruce."

"Well, for now, that's not possible. I'm going to make some phone calls to find you a place to stay for tonight and then we'll take about more permanent arrangements tomorrow."

Greg picked up his phone and called his assistant, Lisa. He spoke quietly into the phone and she came in less than twenty seconds later.

"Hi, Dick," she said softly as she crouched in front of him. "I'm Lisa and you get to come be my helper today. Sound good?"

He shook his head but she took his left hand and gently pulled him up. The motion put a strain on his still-healing bullet wound and he had to bite his tongue.

"You okay," Lisa asked, feeling him stiffen slightly. "Are you injured in some way?"

"No," he mumbled, "just sad."

"Oh, sweetie, I'm sorry. Is there anything I can do to help?"

They were outside of Mr. Makov's office now. Lisa was closing the door but her eyes were on Dick. She hated when the kids cried, it broke her heart.

"I just want to stay with Bruce," Dick cried.

He freed his hand, dropped to his knees and curled into himself. Lisa immediately sat down next to him and pulled him into her arms. She rocked him back and forth, murmuring soothing words in his ears, until he fell asleep.

Lisa carefully laid him on the floor near the wall and went to get the blanket she kept in her desk for these exact situations. She smoothed it over his small body but noticed something unusual. There was a small spot of red on the sleeve of his t-shirt; the one on his left arm.

Gently, Lisa lifted the end of the sleeve and peered inside. The spot on the sleeve came from a circle of red on his arm. Deciding to investigate further, she pulled the entire sleeve up and over his shoulder then gasped loudly. It was blood, and it was slowly leaking out of some kind of still-healing injury.

"Mr. Makov!" she exclaimed as she burst through his door. "There's something you need to see!"

* * *

Alfred arrived home only ten minutes after Dick had been taken away. Bruce was still standing in the open doorway, staring at the empty driveway with distress in his eyes.

"Master Bruce?" the butler inquired as he walked in. "Are you okay, sir? Where is Master Dick?"

"We got in an argument," the younger man said, sounding like an emotionless robot. "His new case manager came when we were yelling at each other. He…he took him away, said it wasn't safe for him here."

"Good heavens!" Alfred exclaimed.

"They're going to investigate me, decide whether or not I'm fit to be a…_his_…guardian. They're going to take him away, Alfred."

What sounded like a sob choked his throat. Alfred was standing in the entrance, two bags of groceries in his arms and eyes wide with shock.

"I can't fix this, I don't know how to fix this. What do we do?"

Alfred, for one of the few times in his life, was speechless. He had no immediate ideas and his mind was still reeling from the news, anyway.

"We're losing him, Alfred!" Bruce suddenly yelled, startling his butler.

"We will not allow that to happen, Master Bruce," Alfred replied, his voice calm even as his mind jumped from thought to thought. "I don't know what to do yet, but we will figure something out."

Shoving the bags into Bruce's arms, the faithful butler closed the front door and walked quickly to the kitchen. When he noticed that Bruce was still standing motionless, he took a deep breath.

"Come, Master Bruce. We need to sit down and think this through."

* * *

The two residents of Wayne Manor didn't know it, but Dick was currently in an ambulance and on his way to the hospital. Neither Greg nor Lisa could identify the wound but it seemed serious. The social worker decided it was better to be safe than sorry, so he called in a favor and an ambulance was in the parking lot within ten minutes.

The paramedics said it could be a gunshot wound but imaging was going to be necessary in order to be certain. Dick had woken up when they had been checking him and had become hysterical. He was now in the depths of unconsciousness, having been injected with a sedative.

They arrived at the hospital and Dick was immediately taken to a bed in the ER. The same long-winded doctor who had treated him almost a year ago was the one on duty. He checked the wound and said that no imaging was necessary. It was definitely from a bullet and he had received the injury recently.

"Mr. Wayne came right away when his boy was here before. Do you want me to call him?" the doctor asked Greg.

"No, we don't know the circumstances. It could be that Mr. Wayne was the one that gave him this injury."

Dick stirred and both men looked down at him. Slowly, he opened his eyes and the first thing he saw was a pen in the hand of Greg Makov.

"Does Mr. Wayne own any guns, son?" the man asked.

"No," Dick mumbled. "Where am I?"

"You're in the hospital," the doctor replied. "You've been shot."

Dick almost blurted out 'Again?!' but managed to hold it back.

"It looks to be about a week old," the doctor continued. "Can you tell us – do you _remember_ – what happened?"

"No," the boy answered, telling the truth and lying at the same time.

No, couldn't tell them. Yes, he did remember. He remembered every second of that day. Every movement, every expression, the pain as the bullet ripped through his skin. But he wasn't going to tell them that. The fact that they knew about it was bad enough.

"Well, you must have been treated by _someone_," Greg stated. "Where did Mr. Wayne take you? What doctor, or hospital, or clinic?"

"I don't know."

"How do you not know?!" the man exclaimed incredulously.

"Mr. Makov, getting shot is a very traumatic experience," the doctor remarked quietly. "The boy is only ten."

"Why didn't you tell me about this when I asked if you had received any other injuries while in the care of Mr. Wayne?"

"I'm tired."

"That doesn't answer my question, son."

"Not your son, too sleepy, want Bruce."

"Richard…"

But Dick had already drifted off to sleep. Greg wanted to shake him awake but the doctor, recognizing the expression on the man's face, gently pushed him away from the bed.

"Perhaps having Mr. Wayne here would be beneficial, Mr. Makov."

"I'm going to talk to the man first. Then I'll decide if seeing his _guardian_ will be beneficial for Dick's health and well-being."

With that, Greg Makov strode purposefully down the hospital corridor, heading for his car and Wayne Manor.


	24. Chapter 24

Note: There are several non-canon-compliant character backgrounds in this chapter. If you don't like how I change it, hopefully you can find it in your heart to forgive me. Thanks! :)

* * *

**Thirty minutes later:**

Bruce heard a car and looked out the window. Dick's new case manager was back, and Bruce allowed himself to hope that Dick was with him. But, Greg Makov walked toward the door without either his briefcase or a small, scared ten-year-old.

Alfred answered the door and showed the man into the living room, where Bruce was sitting on Dick's favorite chair. He stood and held out his hand but Greg ignored it, folding his arms across his chest and glaring at the millionaire.

"Would you care to tell me, _Mr. Wayne_, why it is that Dick Grayson has a bullet hole in his shoulder?"

Bruce was stunned. How was he going to explain _that_?

"I'm waiting," Greg stated impatiently.

"He was…kidnapped," Bruce finally stated truthfully.

"_WHAT_?! When?!"

"Last week. The man who killed his parents found him at school and kidnapped him."

"Why wasn't Susan Jameson informed of this?! And where did you take him to get it treated? And why did he lie to me about it?"

"I took him to a private clinic, one that is funded by only a few people. As for his motives, maybe he was just too scared to tell you about it. He's only ten. Last year he was ripped away from the only home he had ever known and now it's happening again."

Taking a small notebook and pen from his inside coat pocket, Greg stated, "I need the name of both the clinic and the doctor who treated him. And the location."

_Downstairs, in the Batcave. Doctor Alfred Pennyworth. You want me to take you there?_

Bruce was stuck. There was no privately funded clinic, of course, and he had just dug himself a deeper hole.

"Master Bruce, Mr. Kent is on the phone, inquiring after Master Dick."

Alfred. Faithful, observant, intelligent, loyal Alfred had called Clark Kent. Superman was now throwing together a clinic just outside the Metropolis limits in the middle of the day. Nobody would question it, he was _Superman_, and the fact that Clark was willing to do this for him – for Dick – left Bruce almost speechless.

"Do you mind if I take his call? I'll only be a minute."

"I would like to hear your end of the conversation," Greg declared.

"That's not legal…"

"Your ward's name was mentioned. It's perfectly legal."

Bruce walked to the hall extension and picked it up, rolling his eyes. Of course it was legal. Everything that had anything to do with Dick was legal.

"Dr. Leslie Thompkins, sir," Alfred whispered so low that even Batman almost missed it.

"Hi, Clark. Alfred told me you're calling about Dick. He's doing well, almost fully recovered. Yes, you were right about Dr. Thompkins."

Bruce was talking to himself. Clark had left the phone off the hook and on his kitchen table for two reasons. First, he had a clinic to build. Second, Alfred had told him about Mr. Makov, and Clark knew the man would be listening to everything Bruce was saying. A dial tone would not be the best thing for the social worker to hear.

"Alright, thank you. See you next week? Okay, sounds good. Thanks again, Clark."

Bruce hung up the phone and Greg stared at him suspiciously.

"How does Clark Kent, a reporter from _Metropolis_, know that your…that Dick was hurt last week?"

"I didn't want to bring a lot of attention to Dick," the millionaire answered, again truthfully. "Surely you must be aware that if anybody found out that the ward of Bruce Wayne had been shot, reporters would have swarmed the hospital. Clark recommended the clinic and Dr. Leslie Thompkins. It's on the edge of Metropolis."

"You took a ten-year-old boy who had just been shot all the way to _Metropolis_?!"

"I'm not bragging when I say this, Mr. Makov, but I do have a private helicopter. It did not take us long to get there."

"Give me the location so I can visit this 'Dr. Thompkins'."

"You don't believe she exists," Bruce commented, disbelief clearly evident in the words.

"I'm afraid I'm currently a skeptic of everything you say right now, Mr. Wayne. You say the boy was kidnapped but you have no proof. How do I know it wasn't _you_ that shot him?"

"I don't even own a gun, _Mr._ Makov."

"It's not hard to find one in Gotham City, _Mr._ Wayne."

"So you think," Bruce began incredulously, "that I went out and bought a gun so I could shoot my own ward in the shoulder?!"

"What did he do that made you feel he needed such a harsh punishment?"

"I didn't…what?! He never…I would never…this is ridiculous!"

"Is it, Mr. Wayne?"

Batman was really wishing that he had allowed Commissioner Gordon to know that Dick had been at the circus grounds that day. This could all be cleared up with a phone call. But he hadn't, so it couldn't.

"Would you like to take my helicopter?" Bruce offered through clenched teeth. "I'll have Clark meet you and take you to the clinic."

"That's very thoughtful of you, Mr. Wayne, I'll accept the ride. But it doesn't mean that I hold you blameless in any of this."

"I'll expect an apology upon your return, Mr. Makov."

"Oh, and if you try to go see Dick, the doctor will inform me and the boy will be permanently removed from your care."

"Drive your car to Wayne Enterprises," Bruce almost growled. "I'll let my assistant know that you need the helicopter. I'll also call Clark back and ask him to meet you."

"Good day, _Mr._ Wayne."

"Mr. Makov," the millionaire responded shortly.

Greg left and Bruce turned to Alfred, who nodded.

"Dr. Leslie Thompkins is Mr. Kent's personal physician, sir. She also knows he is Superman. He will tell her that Batman needs help and he assured me that she will readily comply. Superman is nearly finished with the building and I already told him you would be sending the man in your helicopter. All will be well, Master Bruce."

"We can only hope," Bruce muttered as he dropped onto his previously abandoned chair.

"Master Bruce, I know that expression but I'm hoping I'm wrong about it this time. Please tell me you are not planning on going to a certain place as a certain someone in order to see another certain someone."

"I have to make sure he's okay, Alfred!"

"If you are discovered, sir…"

"Nobody will know it's me!"

"But why would _he_ visit young Richard Grayson, sir?"

"I…don't know," Bruce answered miserably.

* * *

**Gotham Memorial Hospital – ER:**

Dick, after only fifteen minutes, woke up again. A nurse was currently with him, checking his vitals and humming softly.

"Why am I still here?" he asked quietly.

"You were bleeding, sweetheart," the nurse answered with a warm smile. "And Mr. Makov went to talk to somebody. Mr. Wayne, I think. You get to stay here with me until he comes back to get you."

Dick's face paled and his heart rate sped up.

"He…went to see Bruce?"

"Calm down, sweetie, there's no cause for alarm."

The nurse's voice was gentle and soothing. Of course the boy would be worried; his case manager was going to talk to the man that had probably given the child the injury in the first place. She had seen many things while working at Gotham Memorial. An abusive adult was something she was used to – and that thought always horrified her.

"Sweetheart, you need to calm down," she stated, becoming somewhat alarmed at the speed of his heart. "Nothing can happen to you, he can't come get you, Dr. Andrews won't allow it. You're safe."

"But…I _want_ him to come get me," Dick mumbled. "I want Bruce."

"I'll ask Mr. Makov about it when he returns. But, only if you calm down for me."

Immediately, Dick's breathing evened out and his heart rate dropped. That was a first for her – the boy had been shot by 'Bruce' yet instantly calmed down when told he might be able to see the man. Allegedly shot, of course. But she was sure that Mr. Wayne was the only adult who would have access to both the boy and a gun at the same time. To her, the identity of the shooter was obvious.

"Good job, hon," she murmured as she adjusted the covers around him. "Try to go back to sleep, okay? You look like you've had a difficult day."

Dick was wide awake now but he nodded anyway. The nurse walked away, pulling the privacy curtain behind her. He was completely blocked off; if anyone came looking for him, they wouldn't know he was here without asking someone.

* * *

**The edge of Metropolis:**

Greg Makov stepped out of Bruce Wayne's helicopter. Clark Kent was waiting for him, his arms folded across his chest and his face emotionless. The latter man was struggling to remain calm – the man he was currently scanning had taken away the best thing that had happened to Superman's best friend. Batman might not admit that they were even friends, at least not out loud, but Clark knew better.

"I assume Mr. Wayne notified you," Greg commented.

"Mr. Makov, I presume?"

"Greg is fine, Mr. Kent."

Nodding, Clark led the way to his car and both men climbed in.

"Mr. Wayne told me that you recommended this 'Dr. Thompkins'."

Clark reacted the same way Bruce had.

"You believe she doesn't exist."

It wasn't a question so Greg didn't bother replying. Instead he began interrogating.

"Has Dick ever been to Metropolis? Before this alleged visit to the doctor, I mean."

"No," Clark replied shortly.

"How did Mr. Wayne know where to bring the boy?"

"Seriously?!" Clark nearly growled. "He called me, said Dick had been shot but didn't want to go to Gotham Memorial, for obvious reasons."

"What reasons?"

"Mr. Makov, surely you know that Bruce Wayne is an extremely visible person in Gotham City. How do you think the press would have reacted if they had found out that his ward was in the hospital with a gunshot wound?"

"It would have given Miss Jameson the opportunity to take the boy away from Mr. Wayne even sooner."

Clark was about to explode, something that rarely happened. Greg was implying that…no, accusing Bruce of shooting Dick! Was it really that bad in Gotham City? So bad that people went around shooting their own kids? Because that's what Dick was – the official papers said 'guardian' but Bruce was more like a parent to the boy than a fair amount of biological parents were to their own children.

"It would have been much quicker to get him to a Gotham hospital, publicity or no publicity, than to take the time to get ahold of you and fly the boy over here. One would think that a responsible adult would want the wound to be treated immediately, instead of worrying about what the 'press' would think about him."

"It wasn't about Bruce," Clark snapped. "He wanted to protect Dick, keep _Dick_ out of the spotlight."

"Oh, he did a wonderful job of protecting the boy, didn't he? Shattered kneecaps last year, a bullet wound this year. Yes, he's a wonderful guardian, isn't he," Greg stated sarcastically.

_Shattered kneecaps?_

Clark hadn't heard that but he hadn't even met the boy until six months after Bruce was granted guardianship. Superman knew about the Australian and had heard a little about Mark Jerkins. But Batman hadn't said anything about shattered kneecaps. Who would do that to a nine-year-old boy?!

"You're awfully silent, Mr. Kent."

"I'm being polite, _Greg_. Sometimes it's better to bite your tongue when you have something to say."

"By all means, Mr. Kent, say it. Nothing can happen to _you_."

Clark took a deep breath to calm himself down. True, nothing could happen to him but he needed to be careful how he phrased things so that nothing could be used against Bruce. Alfred had also told him about the visit from Susan Jameson.

"Bruce is an excellent guardian. What happened to Dick a year ago was very traumatic but Bruce has been able to help him, because of his own similar background. I've never seen them fight, or even argue."

"Mr. Wayne is probably on his best behavior when he has visitors."

"I'm not finished," Clark stated, struggling to remain calm. "I've never seen Bruce happier than he has been this past year. Why would he do anything to jeopardize that happiness? You haven't seen the way they interact, I have. You haven't heard them laughing together, I have. You know two things: they were having an argument – which everyone does from time to time – and Dick has a bullet wound in his shoulder. You have no solid evidence of anything and yet you immediately decided that Dick wasn't safe with Bruce. I guarantee you that there is no safer place for Dick Grayson than with Bruce Wayne and Alfred Pennyworth."

"I have all of Susan's reports from the past year. I'm absolutely positive that I know more about the boy and his situation than you do, Mr. Kent."

"When is his birthday?" Clark challenged.

"In March."

"Date."

There was a short pause and then, "Not important. What is important…"

"Dick's birth date isn't important?! Fine, middle name."

"John," Greg replied with a roll of his eyes. "This is not a time for you to give me a test, Mr. Kent. This is a time for me to find out everything I can about the situation."

"One more, Mr. Makov, since you so _obviously_ know more about him than I do."

With an exasperated sigh, Greg said, "Fine but then it's my turn to ask questions that you must answer, no exceptions."

"There are many things Dick excels at. Name three."

"This is a waste of time."

"Two, then, name two."

"Mr. Kent…"

"You don't know. You claim to understand the situation, but you know nothing about it or Dick!"

"I know that Bruce Wayne is a selfish playboy. I know that Susan has been worried about the boy from the beginning. I know that Mr. Wayne has many connections and could have easily found or bought a gun. I know that the boy…"

"She was 'worried' because Bruce never asked her out again," Clark snapped. "He took her to a party but told me they didn't click. Your colleague, Greg, is holding a grudge. She wasn't worried about Dick, she's mad at Bruce. Alfred told me what happened last week."

"Last…"

"And his name is Dick, not 'the boy'. He's an actual person, with feelings, who needs stability. Bruce Wayne gave him that stability, and you just pulled the rug out from under Dick's feet."

"What hap…"

"And he's good at gymnastics, math, woodcarving, running and making people laugh, just to name a few."

"Mr. Kent!" Greg said loudly. "Susan's notes from last week tell me that the…that _Dick_ was rude and showed a temper. She wrote down that he was trying to defend Mr. Wayne but was obviously telling lies."

"Did those notes also tell you, Mr. Makov, that she slapped him?"

"Well, if Mr. Wayne was doing something that required her…"

"No, not Bruce. She slapped Dick."

"What?! No, I don't believe it."

"Bruce has video evidence. You should look at that before you believe everything she wrote down."

Greg Makov was speechless. It would be easy for him to fact-check that accusation, especially if Bruce did have a video. But Susan Jameson was one of the best social workers he had ever met. She would never slap anyone, much less a ten-year-old child!

"Are you okay, Mr. Makov?" Clark asked, knowing the man was probably stunned at that piece of news.

Greg tried to gather his scattered thoughts. It would be best to move on with the conversation.

"It's my turn, Mr. Kent, I need some answers from you. Did Mr. Wayne give you the details during any time, before he brought Dick or while Dick was being treated or after it was over? Anything at all?"

"He told me Dick had been kidnapped and shot by the man who did it. I told him about Dr. Thompkins when he expressed concern about the press."

"And how do you know this doctor?"

"She's my doctor," Clark stated, raising his eyebrows in disbelief.

"Mr. Wayne says it's a privately funded clinic."

"Yes, which I happen to go to when I need medical attention. The fact that it's privately funded has nothing to do with that."

"Nothing against you, Mr. Kent, but I must insist that I talk to the doctor alone."

"Of course, Mr. Makov, I assumed that was the case. And here we are."

Clark parked in front of the clinic that he had just finished building less than an hour ago. It looked well-funded, but not new. He grinned slightly, proud of his work.

They climbed out of the car and walked inside. The receptionist looked up with a smile and a 'How can I help you'.

"I need to speak with Dr.," Greg glanced down at his notebook, "Leslie Thompkins. Immediately."

"What is this regarding?"

"That is between her and I, something I cannot legally discuss with you."

The receptionist glanced at Clark and then typed on her keyboard.

"She's with a patient. You'll have to wait."

"This is extremely important."

"Many things are, sir, but Dr. Thompkins will never rush a patient out. Nor will she tolerate any interruption that is not an emergency."

"Perhaps this is an emergency," Greg nearly growled at the woman.

"I see no blood, no bones sticking out of anyone's skin, nobody is throwing up and neither of you look even remotely sick. So, you'll have to wait," she stated firmly.

Greg mumbled something then went and sat down. The receptionist gave Clark a look that meant Dr. Thompkins wasn't ready yet. She mimed a phone call and Clark nodded imperceptibly. Leslie was on the phone, getting details from Alfred.

Fifteen minutes later, a tall, slim woman with graying hair entered the waiting room. Greg almost jumped to his feet when she held out her hand. He shook it firmly then, with a polite and knowing look at Clark, Dr. Leslie Thompkins led Greg Makov to her office.

"Dr. Thompkins," Greg began as soon as they sat down, "when exactly did you treat Dick Grayson?"

"It's nice to meet you, too, Mr…."

"Makov," he stated impatiently. "But you can call me Greg. I'm from Gotham City Social Services and I'm Dick Grayson's case manager."

"Okay, and I'm Leslie," she replied.

"Please answer the question."

"It was almost a week ago, on the Friday. Dick came in with a gunshot wound in his left shoulder. Bruce had been able to stop the bleeding and it was a fairly simple procedure."

"Fairly?"

"Well, there are always risks with this type of injury. Fortunately, it only took about five or six minutes to extract the bullet and there were no complications. Dick was very brave."

"How long had the bullet been in his shoulder before you were able to see the boy?"

"I cannot give you a precise time, Greg. It is not an exact science. However, it was very recent, probably around twenty or twenty-five minutes."

"In your professional opinion, would the boy have been better off with faster treatment? If, for example, he had been taken to a hospital that was only five minutes away instead of a clinic in an entirely different city?"

"There is no guarantee that Dick would have been seen right away in an emergency room, especially in Gotham City. It was not a life-threatening injury and gunshot wounds are not an unexpected occurrence there. Do you know how many people are shot every day in Gotham City, Greg?"

He shook his head and she sighed.

"I don't either but it's too many, even one is too many. To answer your question, knowing that he was shot in Gotham City, I probably saw Dick quicker than any doctor in any ER in that place."

"What is _that_ supposed to mean?" Greg growled.

"It's nothing against you personally," she responded calmly. "And I've never been there, so I don't know much about it. However, I do know that gangs and mobs tend to thrive there until Batman can take care of them. Therefore, since Dick's injury was not life-threatening, he would have had to wait."

"Even with a bullet in his shoulder?!" Greg asked in disbelief.

"Was it near his heart? Or his lungs, or spleen, or in his head? Did it hit a major artery? No. Therefore, not life-threatening, not an immediate emergency. I, however, was closing up for the day when Clark called me so I was able to treat him as soon as he arrived."

"If the boy…"

"Dick," Leslie interrupted.

"If _Dick_," Greg corrected with a roll of his eyes, "was _your_ ward, would you have stayed in Gotham City?"

"That's an entirely different situation, Greg. I am not Bruce Wayne, who is always in the spotlight, so I wouldn't have had to worry about Dick being hounded by the media. That is the only reason Bruce came to me – he was, and still _is_, protecting Dick."

* * *

Clark was, of course, listening to the entire conversation. Alfred had been very thorough. Leslie knew every detail she needed to and had surmised even more. Clark had told her that _Batman_ needed help and his identity was probably very obvious to her when she received a call from Bruce Wayne's butler.

This was going well, and Clark was sure that Makov was going to believe them. He felt bad about asking Leslie to lie, but perhaps she could treat Dick sometime in the future. At least that would make her statements today partially true.

* * *

"How well do you know Bruce Wayne?" Greg continued.

"I only know what I saw when he was here. Before that, I had heard of him but never met him."

"And how did he act when he was here? Emotionally, I mean."

"He was distraught, of course, as any parent would be. His son had just been _shot_!"

"His ward, Dr. Thompkins. I would think you would know that from the paperwork he must have filled out."

"Yes, Mr. Makov, but Bruce didn't act like 'just' a guardian. His emotional state was that of a parent – worried, relieved when it was over, grateful to me for doing it. I need a drink, please excuse me for a moment. Would you like a bottle of water?"

The woman didn't wait for an answer. She stood up and walked to a mini-fridge against the far wall. Leaning down, she took out two water bottles and whispered some words:

_Clark, please ask Doris for some paperwork and fill it out._

Leslie knew Superman would hear and honor the request. She also knew that Clark and Bruce were good friends. Therefore, Clark would be able to answer most of the questions and he could quickly contact Bruce if there was anything he was unsure about.

Returning to her desk, Leslie offered a bottle to Greg but he shook his head. She sat down, opened her bottle and took a drink.

"Done?" the man nearly snapped.

"What else would you like to know, Greg?" she asked, ignoring the tone.

"How did he pay?"

"Cash."

"He keeps that much cash in his wallet?!"

"As I said, Mr. Makov, it was a fairly simple procedure. I used a scalpel, bullet extractor, and a light dose of nitrous oxide. It was less than three hundred dollars worth of treatment."

"That's still a lot of money," Greg grumbled.

"Again, I'm not Bruce Wayne. I cannot comment on his wallet or finances. That's something you'll have to ask him."

"You can be sure I will. I need to see the boy's paperwork," he demanded.

"Of course. If you'll wait here a moment, I'll go get it from Doris."

* * *

Clark was frantically finishing the paperwork when Leslie appeared next to her receptionist. He was on the phone with Bruce and writing rapidly on the last page. The man nodded and easily forged the millionaire's signature, which Bruce had just given him permission to do.

"Doris," Leslie stated loudly, "I need Dick Grayson's paperwork, please. I think you filed it under 'Wayne'."

Clark grinned – that was a nice touch. Standing up, he handed the papers to Leslie. She gave him a quick smile and returned to her office.

"Here it is, Greg," Clark heard her say as she closed the door.

* * *

Bruce and Alfred were sharing the phone at Wayne Manor. They were each giving details about Dick's background and medical history and all the other information Clark needed. The millionaire sprinted to the safe in the study when Clark asked for Dick's social security number. It took him longer than he wanted to get it open and bring the card to the phone but Alfred had been keeping Clark's pen busy while Bruce was gone.

When they finally hung up, it was with a huge sigh of relief. They hadn't even thought about a paper trail.

"It's a good thing you are such good friends with Clark Kent, sir," Alfred remarked with a smile. "We would not have been able to do this without him."

Ignoring the comment about having friends, Bruce said, "We wouldn't have been able to do it without you either, Alfred. You called Superman and told him exactly what we needed, you called Dr. Thompkins and gave her every necessary piece of information and then you helped Clark fill out the paperwork. Thank you," he finished sincerely.

"As I mentioned last week, Master Bruce, I would do anything in my power to keep Master Dick here with us."

* * *

Greg Makov slowly read every single word on every single paper, searching for anything unusual. But it was the normal paperwork that was filled out by every person who had ever been to see a doctor. Nothing was suspicious or abnormal.

"Well," he finally stated, "everything appears to be in order."

"I had no doubts that you would say that, Greg."

"You say you don't know Mr. Wayne except for what you saw when he was here. How can you be sure that it wasn't him that shot the boy?"

"The only people who know for sure, Mr_._ Makov, are Dick, Bruce and whomever it was that kidnapped him. You weren't there, I wasn't there, Clark wasn't there, nobody else was there. And, from the man's demeanor when he was here with Dick, I would bet my entire practice that Bruce didn't shoot his son."

"Ward."

"That's the legal word, but not the one I would use."

Leslie thought that maybe she was laying it on a little thick. Clark had told her about how Bruce and Dick interacted with each other and the butler – Alfred – had expounded on that but she hadn't even met them. However, she trusted Clark, who trusted Alfred.

"Well, thank you for your time, Dr. Thompkins. I imagine we'll be speaking again in the future."

"You're welcome, Mr. Makov."

Greg left her office and joined Clark in the waiting room. Makov was silent as they walked to the car and Clark could practically see the wheels turning in his mind.

"Are you ready to return to Gotham?" Clark asked.

"Yes, but I have one more question for you. As a reporter, Mr. Kent, how would you have reacted if you had found out that a ten-year-old was in the hospital because he had been shot?"

"If you're talking about 'a' ten-year-old, a normal kid with no connections to anyone famous or noteworthy, I would have put a sentence or two in the crime section of the paper. However, Mr. Makov, if you're talking about Dick Grayson, I would have camped outside the hospital with every other reporter in Gotham City. It's not the fact that it's a kid, it's the fact that it's Bruce Wayne's kid."

"Ward."

"Dick is still a kid, ward or not."

"So it's only noteworthy because the boy lives with Mr. Wayne."

"And because of his tragic backstory. I can see the headlines: Last of the Flying Graysons Shot! Or something along those lines."

"His whole past would have been brought to light again, his story played on every channel and in every paper, it would crush him," Greg murmured.

"Exactly, Mr. Makov," Clark said softly. "Bruce wasn't trying to protect himself, he was trying to protect Dick."

"Perhaps I should look at this situation from several different angles."

"I think that's a very good idea. Maybe start with the presumption of innocence this time. Your first instinct was to assume that Bruce was guilty. However, you've just understood what I've been trying to tell you since I met you. I don't envy you, Mr. Makov, and I would never want to do what you have to do every day. But I know for sure that Bruce would never have done something like this to _anyone_, much less a ten-year-old child that he cares about very much."

"They were having an extremely loud argument on the day I came to meet the boy, Mr. Kent. I can't just assume that everything was fine."

"Do you have children, Mr. Makov?"

"Yes, two boys and a girl."

"Congratulations," Clark said with a grin. "Now, pretend for a moment that you are not their biological parent. You are having an argument with them about homework, or watching TV, or doing chores, or something like that. The doorbell rings and it's a social worker who wants to check on the kids. That person had just heard you yelling at each other. What would you have that person do?"

Greg sighed and Clark stopped the car. They were at the helipad, where Bruce Wayne's helicopter was waiting to take Makov back to Gotham City.

"I would tell the person that it was just an argument and that everybody has arguments. The social worker would want to speak to each child alone and then myself."

"And what did _you_ do, Mr. Makov?"

"Well, I didn't do _that_. But I was basing my actions on more than just a loud argument. Susan had notes about tempers and rudeness and irresponsibility and the boy's weight and the 'activities' Dick said he and Bruce were doing."

"You mean the board games they play and the workouts they do together and the responsible way that Bruce supervises when Dick is tumbling or flying through the air? Dick is active and short for his age but he's lean, not malnourished. I've been to Wayne Manor for dinner and I can testify that he eats like there's no tomorrow."

"Thank you for your time and your willingness to drive me around, Mr. Kent. And thank you for all the relevant information."

"You're welcome, Mr. Makov. Tell Dick hi for me, please."

"Sure," Greg agreed as he climbed out of the car.

He strode to the helicopter and climbed in. Clark watched it take off and turn towards Gotham City before picking up the phone extension in the car.

"I think we convinced him, Bruce. When you get Dick back, we need to pay a visit to Leslie so she can see for herself that she was telling the truth."

Clark paused as gratitude rushed from the mouth of his best friend.

"You're welcome, Bruce. Always happy to help both you and Dick. And Alfred, of course. Take good care of him when he comes home. I have a feeling that will be very soon. Mr. Makov realized several things about you while I was driving him around. You'll let me know, right? Good, I'll talk to you later. Stay strong, Bruce, he'll be home soon."

* * *

A hint of relief filled the eyes of Bruce Wayne. Apparently, Dr. Thompkins had been very convincing. Clark had said that Makov would rethink the situation. Bruce knew that not even Superman would sugarcoat anything when talking to Batman. He wouldn't say that Dick would be home soon if he didn't think it would happen. Everything was going to be fine. But Bruce knew he wouldn't feel that way until he was holding his ten-year-old in his arms.


	25. Chapter 25

Note: Here is it, the real chapter 25!

* * *

**The next morning:**

Dick had spent the night in the hospital. Mr. Makov hadn't come back after going to see Bruce. The boy was sure that his guardian was being arrested or something equally horrible. Mr. Makov probably thought that Bruce had shot Dick. Somehow he would make it seem that way, just like Miss Jameson had tried to blame Bruce for everything. Dick was sure he was never going to see Bruce or Alfred or Wayne Manor again.

The ten-year-old had spent most of the night silently crying. He closed his eyes, pretending to be asleep, anytime a nurse came to check on him. But Dick hadn't slept more than five minutes at various intervals throughout the night.

Suddenly, the curtain swung open and Mr. Makov entered the emergency room cubicle. He was smiling, attempting to put the boy at ease. But Dick wasn't going to fall for his act.

"How are you feeling, son?"

"Not your son," Dick mumbled.

Sighing, Greg said, "Of course, I'm sorry. What can I call you?"

"Dick."

His voice was sullen, like it had been yesterday in Greg's office. The social worker understood some of the reasoning for that now. But Greg still couldn't just let everything go.

"When can I leave?"

"I'm checking you out right now," the man answered, holding up a clipboard with some paperwork on it.

"No, when I can leave you and go back to Bruce?"

"We haven't figured that out yet. There's still a lot I have to investigate."

"What did he say?"

"Who?"

"I know you went to talk to Bruce."

"That's not something I'm going to discuss with you, kiddo."

"Bruce calls me kiddo. You can call me Dick, like I said."

Greg sighed again and shook his head. Susan had been right about one thing – the boy was somewhat rude.

"Alright, Dick, let's go back to my office."

The nurse had been wrapping the boy's shoulder and was now putting it in a sling. Dick inaudibly growled; he didn't need the sling anymore. He wanted freedom of movement. So, as soon as they got in the car, Dick took the restricting material off.

"Dr. Andrews said you need to keep that on," Greg commented when he glanced back.

"I'm fine," Dick grumbled.

Greg decided to pick his battles so he let it go.

"Can we talk about it now?" the boy asked.

"About what?"

"What you said to Bruce?

"I told you we're not going to discuss that."

"Where are we going?"

"Back to my office."

"Are you going to put me in…in the…"

The pause was long and awkward.

"In the what, Dick?" Greg finally inquired.

"The, um, detention…center," the ten-year-old whispered.

"Why? Have you done something wrong?" the man asked, surprised that the boy would even think of something like that.

"No, but Miss Jameson was going to."

"When did she tell you that?!" Greg exclaimed.

"Last year, at the, um, circus."

Dick was still whispering and the man could just barely hear him. This, he realized, was something he needed to take care of now. So, he pulled into the first parking lot he saw, stopped the car and turned to look at the boy in the back seat. Dick's eyes were outlined with fear and his body was tense.

"There is no way I'm taking you to the detention center, Dick," Greg assured him softly. "I don't know why Sus…Miss Jameson said that but…"

"She said there was no room," Dick interrupted quietly.

"Well, that was last year. I'll find a _family_ for you to stay with, Dick. You are definitely not going to the detention center."

"Can't I just go back to my normal family?"

"Bruce Wayne is your guardian, Dick. He is not your parent and he needs to be investigated. His voice was very threatening yesterday and I can't just let that go. I have to make sure you are safe."

"I _am_ safe with him," Dick mumbled. "Safer than anywhere else."

That was exactly what Clark Kent had told Greg yesterday. Something else to ponder, he decided as he faced front again. He started the car and drove to the social services building. Both man and boy were quiet as they took the elevator to the third floor, where Lisa met them in the outer office with a puzzle book.

Greg crouched in front of Dick.

"I'm going to find you a place to stay and then I'll begin my investigation, okay? If I feel that you will still be safe there, you'll be back at Wayne Manor soon."

"How long is 'soon'?" Dick asked.

"It should only take a couple of weeks."

"A couple…_weeks_?!" Dick gasped.

His small body began to tremble and his breathing became erratic. Greg recognized the signs of a panic attack, as did Lisa. He put his hand on Dick's shoulder, attempting to ground him.

"Just breathe, kiddo," he said gently. "I'll find you a great family, everything will be fine."

But Dick couldn't breathe. He felt like the air had been punched out of his chest and he would never be able to breathe again. A pair of soft arms enveloped his body and for some reason he trusted them. So he melted against the chest of Lisa and began crying.

"I've got him," Lisa whispered. "Go make some calls."

Greg nodded and stood up. He strode into his office, closed the door and began making phone calls.

"It's okay, sweetie, everything will work out," Lisa murmured in Dick's ear. "Mr. Makov will take care of things, he'll figure out what to do."

Dick stopped crying and remained absolutely silent.

"Do you want to do some puzzles, or color, or read a book?" she asked.

She was kneeling on the floor with the boy on her lap and her legs were already falling asleep. But Dick shook his head and his hands latched onto her wrists.

"Okay," she said soothingly. "We'll just sit here until you're ready. Okay?"

Dick nodded this time so Lisa shifted her position. She was sitting down now, leaning against her desk with Dick curled up in her lap.

"I'm sorry this is so hard," she whispered.

Dick nodded again and she felt the tiny shaking of his shoulders that meant he was quietly crying again. A single tear slid down her cheek; sometimes she hated her job.

* * *

"Are you sure you can't take him? It will most likely only be for a couple of weeks. No, I understand. Thanks."

Greg hung up the phone. That was his sixteenth call – all the usual homes had no room for anyone else. He had tried some of his normal foster parents but none of them were prepared for another child. He had two choices left: a poor but usually willing family – the Dunstons – or the detention center. So, really, he had no choice because Greg wasn't going to allow the innocent and terrified ten-year-old to spend any amount of time in the detention center. Sighing, he picked up the phone again.

"Hello, Matilda…yes, it's Greg Makov. How did you…oh, you bought a new phone, congratulations! Yes, I know. Well, I have a favor to ask of you and your husband. I have a kid, a ten-year-old boy, who needs a place to stay for a couple of weeks. Yes, I've talked to all the childrens' homes, nobody has room. If this will be a hardship…okay…yes, of course you'll receive money for his expenses. Really? Oh, thank you so much, you just bailed me out of a tough situation! His name is Richard Grayson but he goes by Dick. Okay, I'll bring him over this afternoon. Thanks again!"

Greg hung up the phone, stood up and walked to his door. He flung it open, ready to tell both Dick and Lisa the good news. But they were sitting on the floor, the boy tucked into a ball and the woman whispering in his ear.

Instead of standing there, he sat down next to them. He lightly touched Dick's arm, and the boy flinched.

"I've found you a place to stay, kiddo," he stated softly. "Mr. and Mrs. Dunston are really nice and…"

"Only Bruce can call me kiddo," the boy whispered with a sniffle. "Only Bruce and Alfred are nice."

"Give them a chance, sweetie," Lisa whispered back. "I know them and Mr. Makov is right. They are always willing to take care of our children."

"I'm going to go get you some stuff from Wayne Manor," Greg continued, "and then we'll go to the Dunston's house this afternoon."

"What stuff?"

"Some clothes and other necessities. Is there anything in particular that you want me to bring back?"

"Bruce."

Greg sighed and stated, "You know I can't do that, Dick. You cuddle up with Lisa and I'll be back soon. You're going to love staying with the Dunstons, I just know it."

Standing up, Greg strode out of the office and down to his car. Thirty minutes later he was knocking on the front door of Wayne Manor. Alfred opened the door with a polite yet somewhat grim look on his face.

"I'm just here to pick up some things for Dick," Greg explained. "I found him a family to stay with during my investigation."

"Who?" Bruce demanded as he strode into view.

"That's not something I can tell you. Please just show me where his room is and I'll collect some things that he'll need."

"How long will this investigation take, Mr. Makov?" Alfred inquired politely.

"Two weeks at the most, unless I find something unusual."

"Two weeks?!" Bruce gasped, much in the same way that Dick had.

"It is my obligation to warn you that you cannot try to find him or visit him. He obviously cares about you both very much and I would hate to have to take him away from you permanently."

"Of course, Mr. Makov," Alfred replied.

Bruce was standing completely still, shock written all over his face. Two weeks, _two weeks_ without his shining light. Two weeks without an energetic ten-year-old running around the house, or working out in the gym, or flying gracefully through the air. Two weeks without being able to check on him after returning from patrol. _Two weeks._

"He sometimes has nightmares," Bruce whispered to Greg.

Alfred had gone upstairs and was packing a small suitcase. Bruce was too stunned to even move.

"The people he will be staying with are very kind. They have taken several of our kids before and I trust them completely. He will be safe, Mr. Wayne."

Alfred returned and handed Greg the suitcase. Nodding his thanks, the social worker turned to leave.

"Tell him I miss him. Please," Bruce said quietly.

"I'll let him know, Mr. Wayne. I'll be back to visit you soon. We have some things to discuss and I need to have a look around your house."

With another nod, Greg walked out the door. Alfred closed it behind him, then waited until he heard the car start up and the noise fade away.

"Two weeks," Bruce whispered.

"We need to prepare the study, sir," the butler said wisely. "There can be no evidence of anything having to do with Batman."

"Of course," Bruce replied, still whispering. "But…two weeks!"

"We will get through this, Master Bruce. Master Dick is strong but everything has been ripped away from him again. We need to be prepared for his return and that won't happen if we stand here talking about how long he'll be gone, sir."

Shaking himself out of his stupor, the millionaire nodded. Together, they went to the study to hide the Bat-phone and make sure the bookcase wouldn't open and everything else they needed to do in order to protect Batman's identity.

* * *

Greg Makov and Dick Grayson arrived at Jasper and Matilda Dunston's house at three o'clock in the afternoon. The house was small and shaped like a rectangle. It was completely white except for the emerald trim on the roof. They walked up the sidewalk and knocked on the matching emerald door. It was immediately opened and they were invited in.

"Dick, this is Mrs. Dunston. Matilda, this is Dick Grayson."

"Hello, sweetheart," the woman said, looking Dick in the eyes with a warm smile.

She was short and thin, in her mid-fifties with wrinkles everywhere. Her eyes were an unusual mix of blue and green, looking almost teal in the light. Matilda's hair was a bright, flaming red with bouncy curls that matched the sparkle in her eyes.

"And this is Mr. Dunston," Greg said as a man walked into the room. "Jasper, this is Dick Grayson."

Jasper stuck out his hand with a smile. Dick slowly slid his hand into the much bigger one of the man and they shook firmly.

"Nice to meet you, Dick!" Jasper said in a loud but raspy voice. "Sorry about the somewhat creepy voice, I've had a bit of a cold."

Jasper was also short but he was lean and fit instead of just thin. The slight outlines of muscles in his arms reminded Dick of Oliver, the Australian, and he shuddered slightly.

"Nice to meet you," the boy said softly.

"We're going to have a lot of fun," Matilda said. "We don't have much in the way of toys but we make do with what we have. Do you like to read? We have a bookcase full of books."

Dick nodded, Matilda smiled again, and Jasper took the suitcase from Greg.

Crouching down in front of the ten-year-old, Greg said, "It's going to be fine, Dick. I'll complete my investigation as quickly as possible and, hopefully, my findings will be in Mr. Wayne's favor. Give them a chance, okay? They'll take good care of you."

Dick nodded again even as a tear slid down his cheek.

"Oh, sweetie, come here," Matilda said compassionately, gently taking Dick's arm and pulling him into a hug. "It will only be for a couple of weeks and we're going to have lots of fun together."

Greg stood up, thanked the Dunstons again, and left. As soon as he was gone, Matilda stopped smiling and pushed Dick away.

"I will now show you to your room and then give you a tour of the house," Matilda stated.

Grabbing his hand, Matilda led him down the hall. She stopped at the last door on the left and pushed it. It creaked loudly as it swung open. The room was small and there was no furniture. A thin mattress was on the floor, a thin blanket folded on top of that, and a flat pillow at the end by the wall.

"Let's go see the rest," Matilda continued, pulling him out of the room and returning to the front room.

"This is, obviously, the family room. Around this corner is the kitchen."

She led him into one of the smallest kitchens he had ever seen. It had a refrigerator, oven, three cupboards, a tiny pantry, and a round table with three chairs. There was just enough room for one person to move around and barely enough room for the small table.

There were two doors at the opposite end of the kitchen. One led to a bathroom and the other led to the backyard. The bathroom was small and had no tub or shower.

"This is the bathroom you will use," Matilda said shortly.

Dick wondered where he was going to take a shower but decided to save his questions for the end.

They went out the door into the backyard. It went onto a porch and there were three steps down. The yard was a perfect square and landscaped with rocks and tall weeds.

"Play area," she stated.

Pulling him back toward the house, she led him up the steps and back into the kitchen. The hall where they had taken him to show him his bedroom was near the bathroom. They walked down the hall and stopped at the first door on the right.

"This is our bedroom," Matilda said before continuing down the hall. "Laundry room right next to your room. Basement through this door."

She opened the door and Dick stared down at a long set of dark stairs. He couldn't even see the basement floor.

"No lightbulbs down there," the woman commented before closing the door.

Off they went, back to the family room. Matilda and Jasper plopped onto the couch and stared at Dick. He stared right back, nervous because he didn't know them and he wasn't sure what he was supposed to do now.

"Well, we have about an hour before dinner," Jasper finally stated. "Go play or something. Toys are over there," he swept his hand toward the wall by the kitchen, "and books are in the basement."

Dick silently nodded and went over to the toy area. There was a small box of legos and a well-worn stuffed animal in the shape of a…maybe it was supposed to be a whale?

His shoulders slumped in defeat and the ten-year-old sat down, leaning his back against the wall. Dick wanted to see what books they had, but Matilda had told him there were no lightbulbs in the basement.

As if she had read his mind, Matilda glanced over at Dick and said, "We have more books than toys, if you want to check them out. You look like a reader to me."

Dick nodded again but didn't move.

"Don't tell me you're afraid of the dark," the woman said with a chuckle.

The ten-year-old shook his head. He wasn't afraid of the dark, he was afraid of being _alone_ in the dark.

"If you're scared, there's a flashlight in the laundry room," Jasper stated, rolling his eyes before looking over at Dick. "So either go choose a book or play with the toys."

The adults looked away as Jasper turned on the TV. Dick pulled his knees into his chest, wrapped his arms around them, and dropped his head.

_Only two weeks._

He tried to console himself with that thought, but right now two weeks seemed like two years.


	26. Chapter 26

Note: So, I'm obviously updating this story again. Sorry for the long wait. Like I said before, this version is a little tamer than my other version. Dick still has his troubles, though. Thanks to Rollerparty for reminding me to update this one! :)

* * *

**Midnight – office of Greg Makov:**

Bruce had decided that Batman was going to find out where Greg had placed Dick. Alfred had advised against it but Batman had broken into social services before. It would not be difficult to find the information since he knew it had to be in Greg's office, and that would make it a quick visit.

So here he was at midnight, in the office of Greg Makov. The information wasn't on the man's desk or in one of its drawers, where the hero had expected it to be. Batman opened the file cabinet behind Greg's desk and pulled out the thick file of Richard John Grayson. He opened it, and his eyes widened.

Susan had kept very good tabs on Dick. She had notes from almost every month of his life with Bruce Wayne. There were some pictures of Dick at school and, apparently, she had been at field day. In the photo from that day, the boy was in the middle of his tumbling run. He began reading through her notes, which were dated but not placed in chronological order.

'Dick in hospital – why?' 'Dick talking to Batman?' 'Dick is an impressive tumbler.' 'Wayne actually came to field day!' 'Why does Dick's hair have a dark stripe on the side? Are they dying his hair?!'

The last note was from the day Batman had received proof about Jerkins from the Bat-camera in Dick's classroom. She must have been outside the school, watching him get on the bus, and had noticed but not recognized the dried blood on his head.

'Dick's a bully; didn't expect that.' 'Mercer says he has to expel, no surprise, Wayne probably doesn't teach him respect.' 'Interviewed a friend, Dirk Grimhall. Boy says Dick is jealous of Michael, Dirk's older brother.' 'Mayor Linseed letting the poor child stay with Wayne. Commissioner Gordon must have been very convincing.'

And then, finally, a much longer note in a different style of writing:

'Placed Dick with nice family. Scared of detention center, with good reason. Said Susan was going to put him there last year? Check that out. Kent said Susan slapped Dick? And that Wayne has video. Have to check that. Dr. Thompkins obviously treated gunshot wound, knew everything about it, paperwork was all in order. Both she and Kent are positive that Wayne didn't do it. Dick misses Wayne and Pennyworth, Lisa currently holding him in her lap while he cries for them. Begin investigation immediately. Poor kid….'

A nice family, Dick was with a nice family. But who? And how long had his bright light cried for him, how long was Makov going to torture Dick like this? At least the man was going to do some fact-checking. Bruce needed to make sure that video was ready to play.

With a sigh because he had no clues as to where Dick had been placed, Batman closed the folder and put it back. A social worker wouldn't say 'a nice family' unless he had experience with them. Makov was good at his job and obviously felt bad for Dick. Perhaps the investigation would go quicker than any of them expected.

* * *

**Midnight – house of Jasper and Matilda Dunston:**

Dick was wide awake. The Dunstons had pretty much ignored him, except at dinner time. Jasper had asked him if he liked raw hamburger then had laughed at Dick's expression of disgust. Matilda had jokingly scolded Jasper before laying a _very_ well-done hamburger on Dick's plate. After that exchange, it was as if he wasn't even there.

He had offered to do the dishes but Matilda was the kind of woman who wanted everything done in a certain way so she had declined. Receiving such an offer wasn't something she was used to, apparently, because she had looked very surprised.

After dinner the Dunstons had gone straight back to watching television. Dick had wandered around a little but there wasn't much to see. He had been shown pretty much everything during the tour.

Jasper had finally noticed him leaning against the wall by the toys. He had immediately told Dick to go to bed…at 6:30. So, Dick had gone to bed. And had been lying on the thin excuse for a mattress ever since then.

Wishing he was back in Wayne Manor, the ten-year-old rolled over onto his stomach and eventually fell asleep.

* * *

**The Batcave – ten o'clock in the morning:**

Batman was in the Batcave, using the Batcomputer to search for any tiny hint of Dick's location. He was simultaneously running the Bat-camera Receiving Machine and the Bat-hacking Machine, which was flicking through images from city cameras. Descriptions of both Dick and Greg Makov had been entered into those machines, narrowing the search. But, so far, nothing.

The Manor phone rang and Alfred picked it up, answering professionally as he always did. He hummed a sound of agreement and then frowned.

"Are you certain, Mr. Makov? Don't you want to complete this as soon as possible?"

Alfred listened carefully and then, when he heard a dial tone, slammed the phone down.

"Apparently, Mr. Makov doesn't work on weekends, sir," he stated angrily. "His investigation will begin on Monday."

"_WHAT_?!" Batman exploded. "_That's ridiculous_!" he shouted.

"I agree, Master Batman," Alfred replied calmly, "but there is nothing we can do about it. So, let's continue our search, sir."

The butler was angry, almost as angry as Batman. But he was also supposed to be the calming influence to a volatile hero. Somehow, he was able to keep his voice steady even while wishing he could knock _Mr_. Makov into unconsciousness.

* * *

**The Dunston's house – seven o'clock in the morning:**

After a restless seven hours of sleep, Dick woke up. Jasper was up first and had already made breakfast. The scrambled eggs were delicious, and Dick timidly complimented the chef, but Jasper completely ignored the words. Matilda, when she came out ten minutes later, also paid no attention to the ten-year-old boy sitting right next to her.

"Mrs. Dunston?" Dick asked quietly.

"What," she sighed in exasperation.

"Um, can I take a shower? I was in the hospital and I didn't have a chance…"

"Sure," she said with a shrug.

"Uh, okay, thanks. So, where do I…?"

"Use the bathroom sink, kid," Jasper jumped in. "We're each going to take a shower, too, so you can't use ours."

"Oh, um, okay," Dick whispered.

"But first," Matilda stated, "I want you to get some of that energy out. Go play in the backyard for a little while, soon as you're done with breakfast."

"Okay…"

"And be more polite," she interrupted.

"I…okay," the ten-year-old answered, not knowing how to be more polite than he had been.

The woman sighed again before explaining, "Use sir and ma'am. We're not your parents but we are taking care of you. Being polite to your elders means using sir and ma'am. Geez, where did you come from, a barn?"

With that, Matilda got up, grabbed both his plate and hers, and went to the sink to do the dishes.

"Out you go," Jasper commanded.

"Okay, um…sir?"

"Good job, little one," Matilda said approvingly. "I'll call you in for lunch. Have fun!"

There was nothing to do in the backyard so Dick wondered how they thought he could 'have fun'. Weeds, rocks, a bush, a hose and more weeds. Sticking his hands in his pockets, the boy wandered around a little. But it was hot, and ten minutes later he was sitting on the porch steps, hoping lunchtime would come soon.

Four hours later he was still sitting on the porch, waiting to be called in for lunch. There was no shade on the porch and Dick was hot and thirsty and hungry. However, he assumed that 'call you in for lunch' meant he was supposed to 'play' outside until one of the adults told him to come in. Which meant he shouldn't go inside without being called because it wouldn't be polite. And, obviously, Mr. and Mrs. Dunston wanted him to be polite.

Inside, the house was empty. The Dunstons, forgetting that Dick was even there, had gone to visit some friends.

* * *

**Wayne Manor:**

"What do you think he's doing right now, Alfred?"

"That's impossible to know, Master Bruce, but I'm sure he's fine. The note said a 'nice family'. He's probably reading a book, or playing, or running around outside."

"You're right, he's fine," Bruce murmured in response. "I just wish I knew for sure. What if he's so sad that he's just sitting in a chair doing nothing?"

"Sir, there's nothing we can do about it," the butler sighed. "We'll just have to wait out the two weeks and be strong for him when he returns."

"I know, but he must be so scared! It's almost the same thing that happened to him last year, only we didn't die!"

"Yes, Master Bruce, it is almost exactly the same."

"Torn away from the only family he knows and put in a house with complete strangers."

"Yes, sir."

"What if they have a pool?!"

"Master Dick can swim, sir."

"But accidents happen! What if they don't watch him?!"

"He is an excellent swimmer, Master Bruce."

"What if they have a trampoline and he jumps too high and falls off and breaks his neck? What if he climbs a tree and falls out and breaks his arm? What if they have a gun and he accidentally gets shot?!"

"Master Bruce," Alfred sighed again, "I'm sure they are responsible people who are taking very good care of him. Mr. Makov would not call them a 'nice family' if he had no prior experience with them, sir. As you have often said, it does no good to dwell on 'what ifs'."

"You're right," Bruce mumbled.

* * *

**The Dunston's house:**

When the sun was at its peak in the sky, Dick decided to knock on the door. He was a little bit dizzy – which he knew was a symptom of dehydration – and his stomach was yelling at him. So, he stood up and knocked. And knocked and knocked and finally tried turning the handle. It was locked.

Dick stood at the door, shock in his eyes. The Dunstons had _locked_ him out! What did they expect him to do, eat the weeds?! Try to squeeze water out of the rocks?!

Three seconds later the kitchen door swung open. Jasper stared at Dick, his expression perplexed. Why was there a child standing on his porch?

The silence was overwhelmingly awkward so Dick decided to break it.

"Um, is it time for lunch? Sir?" he quickly added.

"Matilda?" the man called with a glance over his shoulder into the house.

"Oh, we for…Dick, why are you still out there?"

The transition had been slightly rough but Matilda had covered it well. Dick, however, lived with Batman and was not fooled. They had _forgotten_ he was even there.

"You said you would call me in for lunch," he stated, his tone almost accusatory.

"And here we are, Jasper holding the door open and waiting for you to come in!" she declared, her tone sharp. "Let's go, you're letting the bugs in!"

Dick walked in and immediately sat down at the table. With a sigh of relief, he laid his head on the cool wood and hoped the woman would offer a drink.

"Get your sweaty head off the table, kid!" Jasper demanded. "Go rinse off in the bathroom; you're covered in dirt and sweat!"

The ten-year-old wanted to point out that he was currently in this state because they had _forgotten_ him, but he got up and went to the bathroom without a word. It wasn't his fault it was hot and windy but they would probably think it was rude of him to explain it.

Five minutes later he was back at the table. Matilda placed a cup of water and a peanut butter sandwich in front of him.

"Thank you," he whispered before grabbing the cup and draining it.

"Excuse me?" the woman said, annoyed.

Dick immediately knew why so he tried again.

"Thank you, ma'am."

With a short, satisfied nod, Matilda returned to the sink to wash her hands. Jasper had disappeared and Matilda left as soon as she was done. Dick was alone again. He hated being alone. The usually energetic and chatty ten-year-old sat at the table, completely silent and miserable.

After ten minutes of wallowing in his misery, Dick became too bored to continue. He got up and put his plate in the sink then went to the laundry room. Jasper had said there were more books than toys so Dick was going to go look. The boy found the flashlight then walked to the basement door and opened it.

Ignoring the initial pang of fear, Dick flicked on the flashlight and went down the stairs. Darkness engulfed him, the dim circle of light his only guide. The bookshelf was on the far side; he had to walk all the way across the room through inky blackness. Just as he reached his destination, he heard:

"Jasper! You left the basement door open again!"

The door slammed shut, the flashlight flickered, and Dick's heart nearly jumped out of his chest. He raced toward the door, tripped over nothing, and his torso landed on the sharp steps. Gasps of air flew from his mouth as the wind was knocked out of him.

Dick tried to yell for Bruce but nothing came out. Then he remembered that no matter how loud he yelled for Bruce, the man wouldn't be able to hear. Bruce was at Wayne Manor and Dick was in a dark basement over an hour away.

The ten-year-old scrambled up the stairs, hoping that the door wasn't locked. Frantically, he twisted the handle and let out a giant sigh of relief when it easily opened.

"Dick!" Matilda exclaimed as he flew out of the basement. "I didn't know you were down there, you were so quiet!"

"I was…" the boy paused to gasp, "…looking at, uh, books. Ma'am."

"Oh, I'm sorry, hon. Jasper sometimes leaves that open and it's kind of drafty down there. Go ahead and go look, I'll leave the door wide open to give you a little more light."

"Um, no thanks," Dick replied. "I'm okay…"

"Go look at the books!" the woman demanded.

Startled at the tone, Dick quickly nodded and turned back toward the basement. Just then the flashlight flickered and went out.

"Batteries are in the cupboard in the laundry room," Matilda said with a shrug.

She left and Dick quietly closed the basement door. There was no way he was going down there again. At least, not today. He went to the laundry room, changed the batteries in the flashlight, and put it back where he had found it. Then, the ten-year-old went to his room and sat on the mattress.

_Only two…_

The thought was so depressing that he couldn't even finish it.

* * *

**Wayne Manor – dinner time:**

There was no little boy sitting at the table when Bruce strode into the room. He had known that was going to be the case, but he had allowed himself a tiny sliver of hope. Perhaps this had all just been a bad dream.

Dinner was already laid out but the man had no appetite. What if Dick wasn't happy with the 'nice family'? What if they didn't like him, so they ignored him? Bruce could see Dick sitting in a small bedroom, sad and lonely. The picture almost made him cry so the man tossed it out of his mind. Alfred was right – Dick was fine.

* * *

**The Dunston's house – early evening:**

Dinner had been the same as the breakfast and lunch. Once the food was in front of the boy, the adults had completely ignored him. They had talked over his head about all sorts of things: how the neighbor's old, sickly cat was doing; how poor Louisa was dealing with having her husband in the hospital; how that darn dog across the street kept waking them up at night, and other neighborhood conversation.

Dick had thought about offering to do the dishes just so they would realize he was there. But Matilda wanted things a certain way and it would be impolite to offer again. That's what he had assumed, anyway.

After dinner, the ten-year-old went to the toy area. He sat down by the lego box and built a small house. It took him five minutes because there were so few legos. Then he took that apart and built a trapeze platform. He took that apart and attempted to build the Batmobile but ended up doing the Bat-computer instead.

The night sky grew dark and Dick put the legos away. He stood up and went to the couch, only to find the Dunstons cuddled in each other's arms and snoring. Shaking his head, the boy went to his room and laid on his 'bed'. It was going to be another long night.


	27. Chapter 27

**The next morning:**

Dick had barely slept at all. The mattress gave him little protection from the hard floor and the pillow didn't cushion his head at all. He felt like he was lying on a rock.

He wanted to try to go to sleep, but the bright sun was shining in his room and Jasper was yelling for him to get up. At least the man remembered he was there.

Slowly, the ten-year-old stood up. His body was both aching and hot. Sleeping on the floor was not ideal, and being forgotten outside had turned his arms, legs and face red.

"Dick, why are you all red?" Matilda asked as he came into the kitchen.

"Sunburn, ma'am," he replied quietly.

"Oh. Well, after breakfast I'll get you some lotion for that. Don't want you blistering up and having to go to the hospital. We need you here for the money."

Dick almost rolled his eyes at her last sentence. The only reason they were tolerating his existence was for the money they would receive on his behalf. Money that was supposed to be used to care for him. However, Dick had heard Jasper talking about a new car he had seen and the boy was pretty sure that's where the money was going to go.

"She's getting you lotion, kid, don't be so rude!"

"Um, thank you," Dick quickly stated.

"No manners," Matilda muttered. "Where are you from?" she asked a little louder.

"Well, I was an aerialist for the first eight years of my life so I'm kind of from all over," the boy answered.

"That explains it," the woman said, nodding her head.

There was a stretch of silence and Dick was confused.

"What does it explain?" he asked timidly.

"Well, you're a circus freak, right?" she replied.

"I don't…well, freak?" he responded, clenching his fists.

"And circus freaks don't have manners, as far as I know. So now I understand why you don't know how to speak to your elders."

"I'm not a freak and the circus was my _family_!" Dick yelled.

Jasper stood up and, without any warning, smacked the boy across the face.

"Don't yell at my wife," he growled before turning around and walking out to the backyard.

Dick was leaning against the kitchen counter, holding his left hand against his throbbing cheek. He had felt the sharpness of a knuckle hit the bone right under his eye and knew it was going to swell up.

"That was so rude," Matilda declared, "that I'm not getting you that lotion! Maybe some of that pain will help you learn some manners!"

"I'm not a freak," Dick mumbled in response.

"Go to your room," the woman commanded. "And you can stay in there all day, with the door shut. I don't want to see your face until it's time for dinner."

"What about lunch?" the ten-year-old asked.

"You'll just have to survive without it today," Matilda snapped. "Now go!"

So, off he went, back to his bedroom. And that's where he stayed, all day, watching the shadows move around his room. He tried to take a nap but his skin felt like it was on fire. Dick wondered where she kept the lotion. Maybe he could sneak it out of wherever it was and use it when they weren't paying attention to him. That was the case most of the time, so it probably wouldn't be too hard.

Finally, the sky grew dark. Dick waited for someone to come get him. His stomach had been growling at him for a while and he really hoped that it was almost time for dinner. He could hear voices and knew the adults were moving around but he couldn't tell what they were doing.

Soon the noises quieted down and the house fell silent. The sky was completely dark so Dick decided to see what was going on. Slowly, he opened his bedroom door, only to be greeted by a dark house and the sounds of snoring coming from the bedroom of Jasper and Matilda.

The ten-year-old exited his room and strode angrily down the hall. They had either forgotten him, _again_, or just decided not to feed him. Dick went to the kitchen and opened the fridge. Apparently, they had eaten spaghetti for dinner. There was a small bowl with what he assumed was the leftover meal.

Opening the top, Dick grabbed a fork out of a drawer and ate the entire amount in less than a minute. It was not even close to being filling, and his growing body protested that fact, but at least it was food.

Dick thought about leaving, right then. It was tempting, but it would probably hurt the case against Bruce. Mr. Makov would probably think Dick had left because Bruce had taught him to be disobedient. He would twist the boy's explanation around, just as Miss Jameson had done, and Dick would never see Bruce again.

So, he tossed the thought out of his mind and went back to his room. He paused by the laundry room, then went in and searched the little cupboard. No lotion there, it was probably in her room. With a sigh of disappointment, Dick went to bed, preparing himself for another long night of little sleep.

* * *

**The next morning – Wayne Manor:**

Greg had shown up at eight o'clock, ready to begin his investigation. Alfred had taken him on a tour of the house, spending an extra amount of time in Dick's bedroom and pointing out that Bruce's bedroom was right next door. Dick sometimes had nightmares, he had explained, and Bruce was always there to comfort the boy.

The butler had showed the younger man the chair in Dick's room and talked about the first few months of the boy's time in the Manor. How Dick would scream in terror and how Bruce would spend the night sitting in that very chair, holding the boy in his arms.

When they were in the living room, Alfred had talked about card games and board games and books. He had even taught Greg how to play 'War' so that the man would know it was not a sordid card game that only adults should play. They ended up in the dining room at lunchtime, where Alfred left Greg and Bruce to chat while he prepared lunch.

"Your house is very nice, Mr. Wayne," Greg remarked.

"Thank you, Mr. Makov, you can call me Bruce."

"Since we will be talking a lot throughout my investigation, you can call me Greg."

Bruce dipped his head in a sort of half-nod and waited silently for Greg to continue.

"I'm wondering, Bruce, why it is that you and Dick were arguing so loudly on the day I came for my initial visit. Dick refused to answer, said he didn't want to talk about it. I assume that you will answer it for me, since you are not a traumatized ten-year-old."

Bruce wanted to point out that one of the main reasons Dick was traumatized right now was because he wasn't _here_, in Wayne Manor. Instead, he focused on finding a reason for their argument besides 'why didn't you change into Batman and go after the killer'.

"Bruce?" Greg said after a minute or two of silence.

Sighing, Bruce stated, "He wanted to know why I hadn't asked Batman to go after the person who murdered his parents."

"Why on earth would he ask that?!"

"I'm a personal friend of Batman, as Commissioner Gordon can tell you. However, I rarely ask the man for a favor. He has many obligations, as you probably know, and I assumed that looking for that particular criminal was already on his list. The murder of the Flying Graysons was a tragedy and a horrific crime. Batman knew that; he didn't need me to tell him."

"Why wouldn't Dick want to tell me this?"

"I don't know. Perhaps it's something that is too fresh for him to tell a stranger about. It's only been a year, Greg."

"You make a good point. I am a stranger to him and, if I were in his place, I probably wouldn't want to talk about it with a new social worker, either."

"It's a very personal matter and something that is very difficult to discuss with anybody. But Dick and I trust each other and he feels safe talking about it with me. Also, of course, I have experienced the same emotions he is struggling with since I was eight."

"But why argue about it?"

"He's a very passionate child, Greg, and he hates injustice. In his eyes, the fact that I didn't personally request Batman to catch the killer is somewhat of an injustice."

"I see. I heard you say something about thinking about what he says before he says it. Can you explain that?"

"I don't remember the exact words he used but it was along the lines of me being an idiot because I didn't ask."

"You're an adult, Bruce."

"I am," the millionaire agreed. "Do you have children, Greg?"

"Yes."

"Would you have been fine with one of your kids calling you an idiot because you didn't ask somebody for a favor?"

"No, of course not."

"So why is this any different?"

"You're not his parent, Bruce, you're his guardian."

Bruce clenched his hands under the table and took a deep breath. That was one of the stupidest things he had ever heard anyone say but he needed to remain calm.

"So you're saying that you can be offended by the statement and get somewhat angry with your child but, because I'm not Dick's biological parent, I'm not allowed to have emotions like that? I'm supposed to just accept whatever he says without complaint, even if it's completely disrespectful? Does a child who is 'just' a ward need no boundaries?"

"That's not what I meant…"

"That's exactly what it sounded like, Greg. I don't feel like I'm 'just' a guardian or Dick is 'just' my ward. I have the same parental rights you do when it comes to setting and enforcing boundaries. Being a guardian doesn't mean letting your ward walk all over you. I take care of him, I protect him, I feed and clothe him, he has a place to sleep, he goes to school and does his homework, he has friends. How am _I_ different from _you_, besides the fact that your wife birthed your children while my boy was left an orphan and needed a safe place to go?"

"That's a valid point," Greg admitted.

"Have you never raised your voice to your children, Greg?"

"This isn't about me, but I understand where you're going," the man replied. "Both Mr. Kent and Dr. Thompkins think that you treat the boy like a son."

"Because that's what he is to me, Greg. Dick is my son, in every way except biologically."

"Lunch, gentlemen," Alfred said several moments later.

They both said 'thank you' and ate in silence. The silence lingered after the meal so Bruce stood and invited Greg into the living room.

"I think I'm done for today, Bruce. I have several things to ponder in the privacy of my office. Thank you for your time."

"You're welcome and thank you for listening. If I may, how is Dick doing?"

Greg sighed and said, "I can't tell you where he is, Bruce."

"That's not what I asked, Greg."

"I'm planning to check on him this afternoon. I'll call you after I visit him to let you know. You have no reason to worry, Bruce, he's with a good family."

"Thank you," Bruce responded softly.

Greg nodded then walked out the front door that Alfred was respectfully holding open. They watched his car drive away before closing the door and walking to the living room. Bruce collapsed on the couch with a giant sigh.

"You did well, Master Bruce. You told the truth without revealing any identities. Mr. Makov has a lot to think about."

"You were listening."

It was a comment, but the butler replied anyway with a smile.

"Of course, sir, how could I not? After all, I was only a door away and that door is quite thin."

"He's going to come back to us," Bruce said firmly. "Greg Makov is not Susan Jameson and he is very professional and efficient."

"I agree, Master Bruce, and perhaps it will be sooner than his initial estimate."

"I hope so," the millionaire sighed.

* * *

**The Dunston's house:**

While Bruce was being interviewed, Dick was learning how to be polite. Matilda, after feeding him a nice breakfast, made him stand against the wall. She would say a phrase, he would have to repeat it, and then she would do it again. The phrases were idiotic, in Dick's mind, but the feeling of Jasper's hand hitting his cheek helped the boy decide to do whatever she asked – well, told – him to do.

'Thank you, sir' and 'Thank you, ma'am' and 'Yes, sir' and 'Yes, ma'am'. All sorts of phrases designed to teach him how to respond politely to his elders. She spent over half an hour on this exercise, then had him sit at the table. Giving him a piece of paper and a pencil, Matilda instructed him to write 'Yes, sir' and 'Yes, ma'am' one hundred times each.

Dick scowled at her as he sat down. Jasper, without the ten-year-old noticing, had just come into the kitchen.

"Get out of that chair," he demanded harshly.

Dick glared at him as he stood up. Jasper grabbed the boy's upper arm and roughly pulled him down the hall.

"I don't know how else to teach you," the man growled. "Every other kid has done exactly what we've told them to do. Either you're an idiot or you just like to be defiant. Into the basement you go until you can show me that you have learned how to be respectful."

"NO!" Dick shouted fearfully, trying to escape from the man's strong grasp.

That earned him a punch instead of a slap and a shove down the stairs instead of a nudge. Dick tumbled to the ground, hit his head on the hard cement, and his world went dark.

* * *

**Office of Greg Makov:**

Greg had been thinking things over for almost two hours. Bruce had made many points, all of them valid. The millionaire had turned the situation into a personal one for the social worker, much like Clark Kent had done a few days ago.

Looking at it from Bruce's angle, Greg realized he had nothing to go on. The man's story had been plausible, and he hadn't looked or sounded nervous while telling it. In fact, he had seemed both confident and sad. Greg had noticed that Alfred's eyes were weary and Bruce's were streaked with red lines.

Perhaps Susan really had been holding a grudge. Perhaps she really _was_ trying to use the boy to get back at Bruce. Greg needed to see the video, if it existed. He needed to see the interview for himself: the boy's words and body language, Susan's questions, and – he still couldn't believe it – to verify if she had slapped Dick.

That could be done tomorrow. Today, he needed to go check on Dick. Picking up the phone, he called Matilda and asked if four o'clock was a good time for a routine visit. She sounded slightly nervous, but agreed. After hanging up with her, Greg called Wayne Manor to set up an appointment for ten o'clock tomorrow morning.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

Something was wrong, Batman could feel it. Dick was in danger; he had no proof at all but, somehow, he _knew_ it. Alfred hadn't even tried to reassure the man because he was feeling the same way. But why would Dick be in danger with a 'nice family'? There was absolutely no reason that either man should be alarmed, but still they were.

There was no way for anyone to find out where the ten-year-old was currently living. The only people who knew were Dick, the 'nice family' and Greg Makov. Batman wanted to go confront the man but Alfred wisely stopped him. Why would Batman be interested in the case of a small child with whom he had no connection?

Of course, Batman had been the one to find Dick after Michael was done with him, and the one to stop him from killing Mr. Mack, and the one to confront Mr. Mercer about Dick's bruises. So, technically, he did have a connection. But Alfred said that Bruce Wayne wouldn't jeopardize his chances of getting Dick back by asking Batman to confront Greg Makov.

So the men were sitting in the Batcave, waiting for…what? They had no idea.

The Manor phone rang and Alfred picked up it. He readily agreed to Makov's request for an appointment tomorrow morning. After hanging up, he turned to Batman, who was pacing between the Batmobile and the Bat-computer.

"Mr. Makov is coming over tomorrow morning, sir, at ten o'clock. I'm sure he will want to see the video."

Batman nodded then suddenly stopped pacing.

"He's going to check on Dick today. I should follow him, find out where he took Dick!"

"How, sir?"

"The Batmobile, of course!"

Alfred stared at Batman, waiting for him to realize the ramifications of following the social worker in the Batmobile.

"You're right, Batman has no reason to follow Greg Makov around," the hero said after a moment of silence. "But I can't just sit here doing nothing! We both know something is wrong, Alfred."

"I'm sure Mr. Makov will give us an update when…"

"You're right again, I should take your car. Great idea, Alfred, as usual."

"Sir…"

"Your keys," the younger man commanded.

With a sigh, the butler replied, "With all the other ones, of course, Master Batman."

Nodding in acknowledgement, Batman strode to the Batpole and shot himself up to the Manor. He immediately went to the garage, grabbing the old set of keys off the ring holder by the door.

It was a run-of-the-mill, dark-blue Nissan Maxima. No bells or whistles or bright colors or flashy paint jobs. The only time Alfred had used it was when he had taught Bruce how to drive. Nobody would know it was the butler's car so nobody would suspect a thing. Alfred had splurged for dark tint on the windows, wanting to hide his young charge from the prying eyes of the media. But that had been over ten years ago and not a single person would remember such a forgettable car.

Greg Makov was still at his office when the hero arrived. Batman parked two blocks away and, when the man finally left, stayed at a safe distance. The hero was surprised that they were going so far away from the city. One would think that a social worker would want the children in his charge to be close, in case of some kind of emergency.

It was three-fifty when Greg pulled onto a street lined with cookie-cutter, rectangular homes. He drove all the way to the end so Batman stopped at the beginning. There were eight houses on each side with no side streets breaking the line.

The appointment must be at four, the hero supposed, since Greg was now just sitting in his car. At three-fifty-eight, Makov got out. Batman silently exited his car and waited for the man to be invited inside the house. Then he flew through the back yards until he came to the last one. He peeked through the window into the kitchen, but nobody was there.

Batman hated being in full view of anyone but Makov was probably in the room at the front of the house. It was too risky; instead of going around to the front, Batman carefully slid the window up so he could hear. He really wanted to see, but couldn't take the risk.


	28. Chapter 28

**Dunton's house – two hours earlier:**

"Jasper," Matilda called, "Greg's coming over in two hours. Get the kid out of the basement so we can clean him up!"

The man grumbled but opened the basement door and strode down the steps.

"Get up, kid," he growled at the motionless body.

Dick didn't move so Jasper picked him up and marched back up the stairs to the family room. The boy didn't even stir the entire time, even though his body was bouncing in the man's arms.

"He must have hit his head," Jasper stated, laying Dick down on the couch.

"Obviously," Matilda said, shaking her head. "There's dried blood all over his head and a goose egg the size of Gotham City on the back. Go get some ice."

Jasper grumbled again but went to the kitchen to get some ice. Matilda went to her bathroom to get a washcloth, which she soaked with warm water. The adults returned at the same time. Dick was still unconscious.

"You shouldn't have pushed him, Jasper," the woman scolded lightly.

"You saw how disrespectful he was being!" the man retorted.

Nodding in agreement, Matilda sat on the couch and motioned for Jasper to sit the boy up. Then she began carefully cleaning off the small pool of dried blood that was matting his hair. It took nearly fifteen minutes to get it completely clean. They changed his shirt – there was blood on the shoulder – and then the woman held the ice against the back of Dick's head.

The feeling of the frozen liquid startled the boy into consciousness. He gasped and his eyes flew open. Matilda pulled him onto her lap, cradling his head against her shoulder and gently rocking side to side.

"You fell down the stairs," she commented.

Dick was very confused. He didn't remember opening the basement door, much less falling down the stairs. He was also dizzy, and nauseous, and had a headache the size of Wayne Manor. The ten-year-old's cheek was still sore and his body was still hot. His skin felt taut and stretched to its limit, the result of not receiving any healing ministrations on his sunburn.

"Right?" Matilda suddenly asked.

"I…did?" Dick answered, bewilderment filling his voice.

"Yes, and you still don't know how to be polite." Sighing dramatically, she said, "We'll just have to continue your lessons after Mr. Makov leaves."

"Mr. Makov? Ma'am?"

"Yes, he's coming over in a little over an hour for a routine visit."

Dick was suddenly happy that his head hurt and his skin was hot and his eye was swollen. Mr. Makov was coming, he would see what was going on!

Jasper was now kneeling in front of the boy, holding up a small bag of frozen vegetables.

"This goes on your eye, to get the swelling down."

Dick shook his head and the motion almost made him throw up.

Jasper was tired of the behavior so he grabbed the boy's wrists. Keeping them in place, he pushed the package against the eye that had a dark strip of purple underneath it.

"His jaw is swollen, too," Matilda commented. "You had to do it all on the same…"

"It's a good thing I did," Jasper countered. "When he fell down the stairs, he hit that side of his face on the floor. Or the stairs or wall or something."

"No…no, I didn't," Dick whispered.

There was still confusion in his voice but he remembered a strong hand shoving him in the back.

"Yes, you did," Matilda snapped. "And if you say any differently, you're going to be in big trouble. Got it?!"

"But Mr. Makov…"

"Wants to see a happy child," the woman interrupted. "Which is what you are, right?"

"No," Dick whispered defiantly.

He wasn't going to tell Mr. Makov that he was happy, especially not with the way he was feeling.

Jasper yanked the boy out of Matilda's arms. Standing him up, the man roughly slammed his fist into Dick's ribcage.

"Yes, you are," he snarled as the ten-year-old dropped to his knees, gasping. "Because if you don't, there's more where that came from."

Now Dick was scared. He knew what a fractured rib felt like from his time with Mr. Jerkins. This felt worse than that, a lot worse. There had been no cracking sound but the boy felt like he would never be able to breathe normally again.

"Jasper, now is not the time," Matilda said angrily. "Makov's probably on his way."

The man growled, but nodded and pulled Dick up to his feet.

"What are you going to say to Makov, kid?" he growled.

"That I'm happy here," Dick immediately replied, his voice trembling from both pain and fear. "Sir," he quickly added.

"Dick," Matilda said as she stood up, "all you have to do is be good and we'll all be happy. Just be polite and do what you're told. Okay?"

"Yes, ma'am," the ten-year-old whispered.

"Good," she nodded in satisfaction. "Now, come hold this ice on your head and eye. I need to get ready for Mr. Makov."

Dick obediently sat on the couch and accepted both the ice and the package of vegetables. He pushed them against his head and nearly threw up again.

"Um, ma'am?" he ventured timidly.

Matilda was already walking away but she stopped and turned around. Glaring at him, she motioned for him to speak.

"I don't feel so good. Ma'am. I need to…I think I'm…"

He suddenly gagged and his body heaved. Jasper was still there so he grabbed Dick around the midsection, threw him over his shoulder and quickly headed for the backyard. They got there just in time.

Jasper put him down on the rocks and weeks. Dick immediately dropped to his knees and threw up. There wasn't much there but he spent nearly a minute pouring his stomach onto the rocks.

When he was done, Jasper picked him up again and took him to the bathroom.

"Clean yourself up and go put on some different clothes," he commanded. "I have to go change, too, now. Idiot," the man mumbled as he walked away.

"Mr. Makov will be here soon, Dick, so hurry up!" Matilda called from somewhere down the hall.

Dick knew if Mr. Makov saw him in this state, he might take Dick away right now. But if he believed Jasper and Matilda, he wouldn't and Dick would get in 'big trouble'. And he really didn't want to feel Jasper's bony fist anywhere on his body ever again.

So, he rinsed out his mouth and used water-soaked fingers to straighten his messy hair. There was nothing he could do about his eye or jaw; both were slightly swollen and bruised.

Matilda was suddenly behind him, holding something in her hand. She gently took his arm and turned him around. Taking the top off of whatever it was she had, the woman leaned in toward Dick and put a hand on his head.

"Hold still so I can fix you up," she commanded lightly.

It was makeup, Dick realized. Matilda was using her makeup to cover up the bruises. He thought about ducking under her arm and leaving but his ribs reminded him that he should just do what he was told.

Thirty seconds later, the woman was satisfied.

"Go change again," she said, moving back so he had room to get out.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied softly.

Dick went to his room and shut the door. He thought about wiping everything off, but his ribs again protested the idea. So, he changed his clothes and returned to the family room. Matilda was sitting on the couch and she waved him over. Just then, the doorbell rang and Jasper walked to the door.

"Mr. Makov, come on in," the man said with a smile. "Right on time, as usual."

"Good afternoon, Jasper, how are you?"

"I'm fine, Greg, but you're not here to ask about _my_ situation," he replied, the smile plastered on his face. "Dick was just reading a book but he politely put it away when he heard your car. Have a seat."

He motioned to the chair opposite the couch where Matilda and Dick were sitting. The woman had her arm wrapped around the boy. Greg lowered himself onto the chair and studied the ten-year-old. He looked fine, although his eyes were a little red. But that was to be expected after all the crying he had been doing. And Bruce Wayne had said something about nightmares.

"Hey, Dick, how are you doing?" Greg asked.

Dick stared straight at him and whispered, "Fine, sir."

"You've been reading, that's good. Keeps the mind sharp," the man said with a grin.

He was trying to put the boy at ease. There was some emotion in Dick's eyes that he couldn't quite decipher. Greg chalked it up to sorrow, but filed it away to ponder on later.

"Yes, sir," Dick replied. "I like to read."

"I see you're fitting in just fine. It looks like Mrs. Dunston is a good cuddler."

Dick's eyes flicked to his right side, where Matilda was sitting, then returned his gaze to Greg's eyes.

"Yes, sir," the ten-year-old stated quietly.

"So, what kinds of things have you been doing?" Greg asked. "Besides reading."

"I, um, built some lego houses."

"You like legos?"

"Yes, sir," Dick replied, although really he thought they were kind of boring.

His voice was outlined with sadness so Matilda pulled him into a gentle hug, squeezing his arm just enough to help him remember that he was happy here.

"I built a car, too," he continued, although the car had become the Bat-computer. "Sir," he added, feeling Matilda's gaze on his face.

"Were you playing outside for a little while without sunscreen?" Greg asked.

He had noticed the dark pink tint on Dick's skin. Usually the Dunstons thought of things like that so he was a little surprised.

"Uh, yeah, but it was my fault."

There was a short hesitation as Dick's intelligent mind worked quickly to come up with a plausible lie.

"Mrs. Dunston was, um, making lunch and I didn't think to ask her. I just went outside."

"And where was Mr. Dunston?"

"Um, in his bedroom working on something," the boy lied again. "Sir."

"Well, after I leave have Mrs. Dunston show you where the sunscreen is so you can remember to put it on next time. We don't want you to get an unhealthy sunburn."

"Yes, sir," Dick agreed softly. "It was my fault, all my fault."

"It's okay so…kid…Dick," Greg stumbled, almost forgetting the boy's requests regarding nicknames. "We all forget things once in a while."

"Yes, sir."

This was very unusual. Of all the kids Greg had placed with the Dunstons, Dick was the only one who had ever hesitated when using sir and ma'am. The other kids had all been teenagers, though, so maybe that was part of it. Maybe he just needed more time to get used to it. Or maybe something else was going on.

A tiny particle of suspicion began wiggling around in the back of Greg's mind. This was not the boy he had talked to last week. Dick had been sullen and rude and _very_ reluctant to talk. The boy in front of him, however, was polite and answering every question without hesitation. Except for that one flicker of his gaze.

"Jasper, Matilda, I'd like to speak to the boy alone, please."

Nodding, the two adults stood up. Before she did, Matilda squeezed Dick's arm one more time. It was more of a rough pinch and he gave her a tiny nod. They exited the room and went into the kitchen.

"Dick, let's go sit on the front porch," Greg suggested.

The boy's eyes widened slightly but then he slowly stood up. He walked carefully to the front door that Greg was holding open. Walking made him dizzy and the fact that he almost walked into the edge of the wall did not go unnoticed by Greg.

"Okay, Dick, how are you _really_ doing?"

"Fine, I'm fine, sir."

"You seem…different. From the time we last talked, I mean."

"Well, um, you were right, sir. They are, um, nice and they've taught me a lot."

"Like what?"

"Uh, just stuff."

That was too vague to let go but Greg decided to let it go anyway. The man also noticed that Dick's eyes sometimes darted around, and they were darker than the light-blue he had seen a few days ago. But his eyes had held Greg's in the house, except for that one flicker of his gaze when Greg had commented on Matilda's cuddling. That, for some unknown reason, was sticking to the front of the man's mind.

"Is there anything else you want to tell me?"

_YES_!

Dick screamed the thought in his mind but carefully shook his head. A tear flew out of his eye with the motion and he hoped Mr. Makov hadn't seen it. The man had seen the liquid but couldn't tell if it was sweat or a tiny tear. He filed that away, also, to ponder later.

"Well, I guess we're done then. You look like you're doing okay…"

"I miss Bruce and Alfred," Dick interrupted, desperation leaking from his voice.

"I know you do, Dick, and they asked me to tell you the same thing. But I have to make sure you will be safe."

"Safer than here," the boy mumbled, so quietly that Greg was sure he had misheard it.

"Are you sure there's nothing else you want to say?" the man asked, his voice gentle.

Greg couldn't figure out the emotion in the boy's eyes and it was frustrating him. Dick looked like he wanted to say some more things but was locking it all away.

"No, sir, I'm…fine," he stammered.

_Please don't leave._

Dick was begging in his mind and he allowed a little bit of fear to creep into his eyes. Not too much, but just enough that _maybe_ Mr. Makov would reconsider this horrible decision he had made.

Was that…fear? Greg was a little confused. Dick was saying all the right things so he had no reason to be scared. A lightbulb went off in the man's mind. He was seeing very mixed emotions: determination and desperation and, now, fear. Dick, he realized, had very expressive eyes. Was he using them as a warning or was he just afraid that he would never be allowed to return to Wayne Manor?

* * *

Batman was completely silent, almost not even breathing, straining to hear every word. The conversation was pleasant but the hero immediately heard something strange. Dick would never cuddle a stranger after only three and a half days. He was very timid around people he didn't know and wouldn't be in the 'cuddling' arms of someone he had just met. And why was he saying 'sir' almost every time he spoke?

How bad was the sunburn? Why hadn't the woman noticed that Dick was going outside? She should have immediately reminded him to use sunscreen. And why had Dick hesitated before telling Greg _why_ he hadn't used sunscreen?

And then there was his voice. To anyone else, Dick sounded perfectly normal, although a little shy with all the whispering he was doing. Batman, however, was not 'anyone else'. There was fear but also courage. An unusual mix of emotions, and they were so contradictory. Dick was hiding something, and he was doing it very well.

Batman heard Makov ask the adults to leave so he silently crept away from the window and down the steps of the porch. He heard the sound of a door opening so he moved to the eastern side of the house. Dick and Greg were on the porch, and Greg was asking for honesty.

Clearly the man had some doubts about this situation. And out here, away from the 'nice family', Dick's voice was full of desperation and outlined with pain. It was obvious, to Batman, but he couldn't tell if Greg could hear it. Something was going on. Bruce and Batman had heard terror and frustration and sorrow and anger but never desperation.

Greg was getting ready to leave but Batman was thinking about staying. Now he could hear an edge of panic and Dick was practically begging when he stammered out that he was fine.

Batman made a different decision and sprinted away. He was going to come back tonight and stop whatever was happening. The hero couldn't be out here in broad daylight, in a civilian car with no plausible excuse. So, he was going to return to the Batcave, find out as much as he could about the Dunstons, and make something happen in this neighborhood that would cause Commissioner Gordon to call on the services of Batman.

* * *

Greg Makov, deciding that was all he would get today, finally left. Dick reluctantly went inside. Jasper and Matilda were waiting, arms folded across their chests and bodies tense.

"What did you say?" Jasper demanded.

"That everything was fine, sir. He asked if I had anything else to say and I said everything was fine."

Jasper nodded and sat down on the couch. Matilda joined him and Dick, just like his first night there, didn't know what to do.

"Go do something, kid," Jasper commanded. "Stop staring at us like that."

"Sorry, sir, I wasn't…I didn't mean to stare. I just wasn't sure if you…"

With a loud sigh, Matilda said, "Dick, just go play or read or have a snack. It's not our job to entertain you. The only reason you're here is because we need the money."

"Um, isn't it almost dinner time?" Dick asked softly.

"This is ridiculous," the woman muttered. "To the kitchen. Paper and pencil on the table, go do your work so you can learn to be polite. One hundred times each, got it?"

"Yes, ma'am," the ten-year-old replied.

"You can have dinner if you get done with that before we're done eating. And I want to be able to read every word – no chicken scratch. GO!"

The last word was a command so Dick went. Sighing, he sat at the kitchen table and began to write.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

"Jasper and Matilda Dunston, ages fifty-seven and fifty-five, respectively. No children, no pets, no arrests, not even a parking or speeding ticket," Batman growled as he flipped through several pages that he had received from the Bat-computer. "The perfect 'nice family' for foster children."

"From the social services records, I have them listed as foster parents for eleven – now twelve – children at various times. Never more than one at a time and all teenagers. Master Dick is the youngest one to be placed with them, sir."

"How old is the next youngest?"

"Fourteen, Master Batman."

"That's a big age difference."

"Indeed, sir."

"One car, registered in both names, house completely paid off – unusual for a couple in their fifties – one checking account and one savings account. Less than one hundred dollars in checking and the minimum twenty-five dollars in savings."

"You…checked their bank accounts, Master Batman?!"

"Of course! I have to find out what's going on so I need all the background information I can get. They've never owed on taxes, Jasper had his own business for a while but is now on unemployment. Matilda is on disability, something about an accident in a factory."

"How does a couple with so few assets have the resources to foster children throughout most of their adult lives, sir?"

"Well, they get money from the state for fostering. Maybe that keeps them afloat."

"Perhaps that's the _only_ thing, sir. Perhaps they live check to check until Mr. Makov gives them a child. And perhaps, sir, the Dunstons are his go-to couple in an emergency."

"Why in an emergency, Alfred?"

"Don't you think, Master Batman, that a social worker would want the children in his care closer to his office? The Dunstons are almost an hour away. But if there is no room in any childrens' homes, I highly doubt that Mr. Makov would place a child in the detention center, sir. He does not strike me as an uncaring man."

"I thought about that earlier," Batman agreed. "You're right, maybe there was no room anywhere else and Greg was nice enough not to send Dick to the detention center."

There was a long pause as both men pondered what they had learned so far.

"It's a nice street, Alfred, and a quiet neighborhood. I looked at the crime reports and there has never been any type of call to the police or fire department or anything."

"Then you will have no excuse for being there, sir, making your actions suspicious. Therefore, we shall make something happen."

"What?" Batman asked, surprise in his tone. "How?"

"I'm not sure, Master Batman, but we need to figure it out before nightfall."

"That's less than two hours, Alfred."

"Then we should get to work, sir."


	29. Chapter 29

**Two hours later:**

It had taken almost half an hour but Dick had finished his writing. Jasper and Matilda hadn't even come out to make dinner yet.

"The Bat-signal!" Jasper suddenly shouted from the family room, startling the ten-year-old.

Matilda rushed into the kitchen to prepare dinner, Jasper grabbed the flashlight and went down the basement stairs, and Dick stood up and looked out the kitchen window. He was disappointed; he was on the wrong side of the house to see the Bat-signal.

Jasper was suddenly back, three books cradled in the crook of his left elbow. Matilda placed three bowls on the table and sloshed some kind of soup in each one. The man rushed to deposit the books in the family room while the woman grabbed Dick's arm and brought him back to the table.

"Eat your soup," she demanded, "and do it quickly."

The slop was disgusting but Dick was hungry. It didn't take him long to finish the bowl. Matilda, while she was eating, had examined the boy's writing. She was disappointed to find no flaws anywhere.

"Did you learn a lesson today, Dick?" she asked.

Dick nodded and watched her eyebrows raise in an expression of disbelief.

"Yes, ma'am, thank you, ma'am," he instantly replied.

With a nod of her own, Matilda continued, "And what did you learn?"

"I learned to be polite, ma'am."

"And?" she encouraged with a wave of her hand.

"And to call everyone 'sir' and 'ma'am'."

"And?"

Dick wracked his brain but came up with nothing else. She had impressed upon him the importance of using those words but he couldn't think of anything else he might have learned. So, he decided to use what he had learned from Jasper.

"Um, I learned that I need to always obey. Ma'am."

Jasper chuckled, then said, "You got just a little taste of my lesson, kid."

"I'll obey, sir, I'll do whatever you say," Dick replied quickly.

"We'll see," the man stated, a slight warning tone in his voice.

Just then, for the second time in less than five hours, the doorbell rang.

* * *

**Half an hour earlier:**

They had decided to do something quick. Instead of _trying_ to make something happen, Alfred called in an anonymous tip about someone walking through the neighborhood leaving frozen bushes in his wake.

The dispatcher called the police and the officer at the desk, when he heard the description of the man, sent the call straight to Commissioner Gordon's office. The commissioner immediately used the Batphone but nobody answered. He nodded to Chief O'Hara, who rushed to the roof and turned on the Bat-signal.

* * *

And there it was. Batman waited one long minute then picked up the Batphone extension in the Batmobile.

"Batman, thank heavens!" the commissioner exclaimed. "We think Mr. Freeze has returned to Gotham City! There's been an anonymous tip about someone fitting his description. It came from Blackmoor Road, just outside the city limits!"

"I'll take care of it, Commissioner."

Batman began driving and counted to seven. As soon as he said 'seven' the Bat-signal flickered then disappeared. With a slight grin – Dick had figured that one out – the Caped Crusader headed toward Blackmoor Road.

It had taken almost an hour in Alfred's car, which meant the Batmobile made it there in just over thirty minutes. Batman didn't bother stopping at any other house. He went straight to the Dunston's, creating a story in his mind. After parking the Batmobile, the Caped Crusader climbed out, walked to the door, and rang the bell.

Matilda grabbed Dick's arm again and rushed him into the family room. She settled them on the couch and gave the boy a paperback book before opening her own. Dick glanced at the title, "Modern Warfare in the Dark Ages". An idea popped into his mind. He quickly flipped it upside down, glancing at the woman and hoping she hadn't noticed. Then he held it up in one hand, opened it, and began pretending to read.

Jasper, meanwhile, laid the third book on the table by the chair where Greg Makov had been sitting earlier. Taking a deep breath, he strode to the door and opened it.

"Batman?" he asked, confusion in his voice. "How can I help you?"

And then Dick heard one of the sweetest sounds he had ever heard – Batman's voice.

"There has been a report of some suspicious activity in this neighborhood. I'm merely here to make sure everyone is safe. May I come in?"

Jasper glanced back at Matilda, who curved her arm around Dick and gave a slight nod.

"Of course, Batman, come right in."

Opening the door wider, Jasper stepped back. The commanding figure of the Caped Crusader entered the room and Dick internally cheered.

"Good evening," Batman greeted Matilda cordially. "Sorry to interrupt, but Commissioner Gordon asked me to check the neighborhood."

"No problem at all, Batman," the woman replied kindly. "We were just reading."

Batman looked pointedly at Dick and Matilda quickly stated, "This is our foster son, Richard."

"Hello, Richard," Batman said, the name sounding awkward coming from his mouth.

"Hello," Dick replied softly. Matilda squeezed his arm and he quickly added, "Sir."

Crouching down in front of his ward, Batman stared into the boy's eyes. Dick's pupils were dilated, that was the first thing he noticed. It was obvious that he couldn't focus on Batman for more than three seconds, no matter how hard he tried. And Batman could see him trying. But his eyes would cloud over, or dart away and then return.

"How are you doing, kiddo?" the hero asked softly.

"I'm fine, sir, thank you," Dick replied, keeping his voice neutral.

"Good," Batman said as he stood up, even though he knew Dick was lying.

The boy had a concussion – although Batman wasn't sure about the severity – and he was holding his book upside down. That was on purpose, the hero knew. Even a concussed Dick would know which way he needed to hold a book in order to read it. It was a clue, in case Batman couldn't get any closer than the door.

Dick had only said seven words but every single one had pain woven through it. The left side of his face looked slightly swollen, but it could be just the lighting. There was also a tiny hitch in his breathing, so quiet that only Superman, Batman, and probably Alfred would know it was there.

"Is there anything else, Batman?" Jasper asked, his voice impatient.

"It's the boy's bedtime," Matilda said smoothly, shooting a glare at her husband.

"No, thank you, I just want to make sure the neighborhood is safe."

"Do you want something to drink, sir?" Dick suddenly blurted out.

All three adults were startled, although none of them showed it. Jasper, who was behind Batman, narrowed his eyes. The boy was trying to get the hero to stay longer. That was unacceptable, and he would be learning that after Batman left.

"How very polite of you, Dick," Matilda said through clenched teeth. "We have water, Batman, if you would like a drink."

The Caped Crusader tilted his head slightly to the right, considering the request. What was Dick trying to tell him?

"I'll get it, sir," Dick offered, standing up. "It's kind of hot outside."

Matilda grabbed his hand and Dick quickly added, "Sir."

Dick wanted Batman to watch him walk away. He wanted him to see the way he stumbled over nothing and was hoping that he would get so dizzy he would either fall down or walk into a wall.

"I appreciate…" Batman began but Matilda interrupted.

"Dick, honey, sit down, I'll get it."

The woman disappeared around the corner and returned ten seconds later. She handed Batman a cup of luke-warm water. He nodded his thanks and drained the cup without taking his eyes off Dick. The ten-year-old was staring at the ground, his hands clasped so tightly in his lap that they were trembling.

"Can I, uh, see the Batmobile, sir?" Dick tried again.

"Dick," Matilda gently scolded, "Batman is a busy man. And it's your bedtime."

Jasper stepped around Batman and took the empty cup.

"Thanks for stopping by to check on us. I hope you catch whatever suspicious fellow you're looking for."

The man gestured toward the open door. Batman clenched his hands into fists and thought about refusing to go. But there was no valid reason to do so and he didn't want them to tell Greg Makov that Batman was hanging around for no reason. Greg might think that Bruce Wayne had asked Batman to check on Dick, which would open a whole new can of worms that might make the investigation last even longer.

So, Batman softly growled, "I will, you can be sure of that."

Whirling around, the Caped Crusader walked out the door and returned to the Batmobile. Climbing in, he revved the engine and pulled away. He made a U-turn and sped off into the dark. Three minutes later, the Batmobile was parked around the corner at the end of the street and Batman was racing through backyards, just as he had done earlier in the day.

Jasper closed the door and waited for the sound of the engine to fade away. Then he motioned to Matilda, who sat down by Dick. The boy was staring at the ground, rubbing his aching head with one hand.

Crouching down in front of them, Jasper grabbed Dick's chin and roughly lifted the boy's head. He studied the blue eyes, just as Batman had, and realized that if he could see the dilation and lack of focus, then the Caped Crusader certainly had. But Batman didn't know the kid, so maybe he had assumed that Dick's eyes looked like that all the time.

"You wanted him to stay," the man snarled. "Why?"

"He's, um, _Batman_, sir."

Matilda hummed in agreement. All the boys she had ever taken care of had always wanted to meet Batman. The man was rather impressive, and young boys were usually obsessed with heroes. As far as she knew, anyway. She had never had a ten-year-old.

"No, you offered to go get him a drink. That's not wanting to _meet_ him, that's wanting to show him something. What were you going to show him?"

Dick suddenly realized that Jasper was smarter than he had given the man credit for. Jasper roughly shook the boy's head, increasing the already pounding headache, and repeated his question.

"I don't…I just thought he might be thirsty," the ten-year-old moaned softly. "Sir."

"You're lying," Jasper snapped. "You think I didn't notice that you were holding the book upside down?!"

"Dick!" Matilda gasped. "Why on earth were you doing that?"

He had an idea but it didn't come out quite the way he wanted it to.

"I already know side up practice down harder read."

"What?" both adults asked loudly.

Dick squeezed his eyes shut then opened them again. His thoughts were foggy, he couldn't even remember what he had just said. Jasper's face became blurry and Matilda's voice, right next to his ear, sounded like it was underwater.

Jasper took the matter into his own hands. He pulled Dick to his feet and slapped him across the face again. On the same side as he had before. The hit forced the clouds away and Dick recognized the fact that he was in trouble.

"It was a clue," Jasper growled. "You were trying to tell Batman something."

"No," Dick mumbled. "Can't think straight."

"Well, you could certainly think straight when you tried to give him a clue!" the man countered loudly.

"Shhhhhhhhh," Dick slurred, grabbing his aching head.

"Oh, for pete's sake," Matilda snapped. "I don't know if you're even worth the money."

"What do you think, Dickie-boy?" Jasper asked. "Are you worth it?"

"Yes, um, I don't know, uh, yes, sir?"

Dick was lost in a sea of confusion. The man had said something about a boy worth it but what was 'it'? The world began spinning and the ten-year-old stumbled sideways. He hit a wall and slid to the ground. But Jasper was immediately in his face, pulling him up again.

"In your room, kid," he snarled, shoving the boy toward the hall.

He was swaying and trembling and wanted to throw up again. The door to his room was open but he misjudged the trajectory and ran straight into the edge of it. Dick's forehead felt wet and he wondered when he had put water on it. Something red dripped onto his hand, confusing him even more.

Jasper had seen him run into the door but didn't know about the injury. Chuckling, he shoved the boy inside.

"Idiot, can't even walk straight," the man muttered as he shut the door and left.

Dick saw the mattress and tried to get there. But his one step took him down to his knees. The rough landing knocked him forward, and he landed face-down on the hard floor.

_Bruce._

That was the ten-year-old's last thought before he lost consciousness. A small, thin river of blood began slowly gliding away from his head. If Dick had been awake, he would have realized that he needed to stop the bleeding. But he wasn't, so he couldn't.

* * *

Batman arrived in the Dunston's backyard just in time to see Jasper enter the kitchen. Matilda was there, Jasper said something, she nodded, and then they went to the front of the house.

The Caped Crusader didn't waste any time. He hadn't been able to hear the words, but he was certain that Jasper had taken Dick to bed. Batman strode to the first window, just left of the kitchen door. It was shut tight, and the curtains were drawn.

He moved around the corner, following the wall until he came to the next window. It, too, was shut tight but there were no curtains. The window was unusually high up, but Batman was just tall enough to be able to look inside.

The only light was a thin strip of moonlight running right through the middle of the room. Dick was lying on the floor. There was no bed or even mattress, unless the Dunstons considered the flat material on the ground a mattress. But Dick wasn't even lying on that.

Batman tried pulling up the window, to no avail. He couldn't even get it open with his Bat-pick, Bat-knife, or his Locked Window Emergency Bat-opener. His next idea was to just bust the window open. Instead, he knocked on the glass. If Dick was okay, he would get up and come to the window to investigate. If the boy didn't move, Batman was going to break through the glass.

Apparently, Dick was okay. The boy moved his head, rolled onto his back, and stretched. Then he slowly pushed himself up to sitting. Batman knocked again, and Dick turned his head in the direction of the sound. His face ended up in shadow, so the Caped Crusader couldn't tell if there were any injuries.

"Dick," Batman said as loud as he dared, which was barely above a whisper. "Come here, chum, let me look at you."

The ten-year-old looked around his entire room then slowly crawled to the "mattress". He flopped onto his stomach and went to sleep. That's how it looked to Batman, anyway.

* * *

A soft noise woke him up, like somebody tapping on glass. Dick sluggishly blinked his eyes and rolled onto his back. His ribs protested the movement and the boy decided to find out how bad the damage was. He stretched, and immediately regretted the action when he felt his ribs grinding together.

The ten-year-old heard the noise again, so he slowly sat up and turned his head toward the sound. There was nobody in the room with him and only shadows dancing with the moonlight outside. Now he was hearing whispers. Slightly alarmed, Dick looked around his entire room. Still nobody – inside or outside.

Going to sleep felt like the best way to get rid of the noises. Plus, he was really dizzy and his entire body felt weak. Sleep would help that, also. Getting on his hands and knees, Dick carefully crawled to the mattress that was several feet away. The world was spinning wildly around, knocking him off balance and causing him to flop onto his stomach. With a groan, Dick closed his eyes and drifted back into the world of unconsciousness.

Neither Batman nor Dick noticed the thin film of blood now streaked across the floor.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

"He has a concussion, Alfred."

"That could have happened in my different ways, Master Batman."

"Why wouldn't they take him to a hospital?"

"Most people don't know the signs as we do, sir."

Batman was sitting on the chair in front of the Bat-computer, one hand clenched into a hard fist on the table.

"He said 'sir' all the time."

"I don't know what to say about that, Master Batman. Perhaps the Dunstons have impressed the importance of politeness upon him."

"He's already polite, he doesn't need it 'impressed' upon him!" Batman declared heatedly as he removed his cowl.

"Of course he is, sir, and I agree he does not. I really don't know what to think."

"He's sleeping on the floor, Alfred. The 'mattress' is a flimsy piece of material that I wouldn't even use as a sleeping bag."

"Master Bruce, he was moving when you saw him in his room, was he not?"

The younger man nodded and Alfred continued, "So, he is not dead and not injured so badly that he cannot move."

"He has a _concussion_, Alfred, did you not hear me?!"

"Of course I heard you, sir! But the fact that young Master Dick is showing signs of a concussion does not mean any of us can go breaking into the Dunston's house and whisking him away. What would Mr. Makov think if Batman swooped in and carried the boy off?"

"He would think I asked Batman to do it," Bruce replied with a sigh.

"Master Dick is alive and intact, sir. And you have an appointment with his case manager in," Alfred paused to check his watch, "a little less than ten hours. You need to go to bed, Master Bruce. Mr. Makov needs to meet with Bruce Wayne the parent, not Bruce Wayne the grumpy man who didn't get enough sleep."

With another sigh, Bruce nodded and stood up. The men went their separate ways – Bruce to the Bat-pole and Alfred to the service elevator – and went to bed. It was a long two hours before either man fell asleep.

* * *

**Dunston's house – two in the morning:**

Dick was screaming in terror. Jasper was startled awake but Matilda was already out of bed and rushing toward the boy's room.

"Dick!" Matilda called as she turned on the hall light. "It's okay, honey, I'm coming."

She ran into Dick's room. He was curled on his side, shaking, and his arms were wrapped around his shoulders. His eyes were squeezed shut and tears were leaking out of the closed lids. Matilda sat down and pulled the boy into her arms.

"Shhhh," she whispered soothingly. "It's okay, it was just a dream."

He heard a calming voice, but it wasn't the right one. The voice was feminine, meaning it definitely wasn't Bruce or Alfred. Dick continued crying loudly, refusing to let go of himself and refusing to snuggle into Matilda's warm arms. This wasn't right, _she_ wasn't right.

"Bruce," he cried in a wobbly voice.

"No, sweetheart, it's Matilda. You don't need Bruce, I'm right here. Calm down."

Suddenly, Dick remembered where he was. He immediately forced himself to stop crying and rolled away from her.

"Thank heavens," the woman muttered as she stood up and left.

Dick's entire body was trembling. He needed to throw up, for what felt like the hundredth time, but forced it away. There was something on his face, something besides tears. Dick swiped a hand across his forehead and was alarmed when he saw a streak of red.

The moonlight was a square by his feet, and it was dancing on something. Slowly, Dick moved over and discovered that it was a small, shallow pool of blood. There was a trail that led from that pool straight back up to his pillow, where another, larger, pool was resting.

Now he was very alarmed. Dick didn't know how long he had been either unconscious or asleep, but now he knew why he was shaking so badly. As if in confirmation, several drops of red fell toward the ground, splashing into the pool below.

A sudden burst of adrenaline helped him get to his feet. Dick stumbled his way out the door, down the hallway, through the kitchen and into the bathroom. Flicking up the light switch, the ten-year-old examined himself in the mirror.

There was a shallow cut that stretched across his entire forehead. It was leaking blood, as he assumed it had been since he had received it. He didn't even know when he had received it. He realized that he didn't remember much of anything right now.

Clouds floated through his mind, framing fuzzy pictures that made no sense. Jasper had hit him but that shouldn't have created this cut. Unless the man had hit him with a knife, which didn't make sense because the slice wouldn't be this shallow.

Dick remembered holding a book upside down and wondered why he would do that. He had no memory of seeing or speaking to Batman. In fact, the upside book was the last thing he remembered.

"_What's going on_?!" Jasper roared from the hallway.

Dick whipped his head around, startled, and that sent his world tumbling. He tried to grab the sink to steady himself but missed and his body hit the wall hard. Strange shapes began floating throughout the room and a giant shadow came flying toward him.

"Matilda, he's bleeding!" Jasper called, making it to the bathroom just in time to catch Dick before he melted to the ground.

When Dick woke up, he found himself on the couch again. It was almost completely dark; the weak flicker of the outside streetlamp was the only thing piercing through the blackness. The Dunstons had cleaned and bandaged his wound then gone back to bed.

He was too tired to think about going to his room, so the ten-year-old closed his eyes and fell asleep.


	30. Chapter 30

Note: Thanks for the review, usagipoints! :)

Trigger Warning! Not-very-graphic physical abuse and a little verbal/emotional abuse in this chapter.

* * *

**Office of Greg Makov – eight o'clock:**

Greg had just arrived in his office. He needed to organize his notes – both paper and mental – that he had recorded during these last few days before his appointment with Bruce Wayne.

Clark Kent and Dr. Leslie Thompkins were both reputable professionals and Greg trusted them. Kent had made some very good points and one of them stood out to Greg like a lighthouse in a storm – why would Bruce Wayne jeopardize his own happiness by giving his ward a harsh punishment? If the millionaire was happy, that meant he cared about the boy. And if he cared about the boy, there was no logical reason for him to shoot Dick. Therefore, Bruce Wayne was telling the truth about Dick's kidnapping. Which meant that Bruce had not shot Dick.

Alfred had been very informative while giving Greg a tour of Wayne Manor. The social worker had been surprised when the butler had specifically pointed out that Dick's room was right next door to that of Bruce. Greg had assumed that the 'selfish playboy' – as Susan had called Bruce – would want his own space and not want to be bothered while sleeping. But if the boy had nightmares, as a stunned Bruce had mentioned the other night, then that same 'selfish' man would be woken up every time. So, clearly, Bruce either cared about Dick or was such a deep sleeper that a child screaming in fear didn't even wake him up. Greg was leaning toward the former.

It was obvious that Bruce would be able to help Dick with certain emotions. Greg knew the millionaire's backstory, as did everyone else in Gotham City, and Dick's was a near-perfect match. But, did Bruce allow his anger at what had happened to him affect how he treated Dick? Emotional stability was important for a ten-year-old boy, and Greg wasn't quite sure where to put Bruce on that scale. Yet.

Finally, Greg had to admit, he had walked into this situation with a lot of preconceptions. It hadn't been his fault, he had just been going off of Susan's notes at the beginning, but the fact that Dick wasn't at Wayne Manor _was_ his fault. The man also had to admit to himself that if he had gone to the house of a regular family and heard them yelling at each other, he would not have jumped to the conclusion that the kids weren't safe with their parents. As Clark, Bruce, and even Dick had said: everyone has arguments. And, as Greg well knew from his personal experiences, sometimes arguments can become loud.

Sighing, Greg thought about his interview with Dick. The way the boy's gaze had flicked toward Matilda before he replied to the statement about her cuddling; the 'sir' coming out of his mouth almost every time he said something; the lack of hesitation when answering questions, except that one time at the end when he and Dick were alone on the porch.

And the emotions that were bursting out of those expressive eyes. Greg had pondered that expression during the long drive back to his office and decided that his interpretation was correct. Determination, desperation and, at the very last moment of his interview, fear. But the man could come up with no logical reason why. The Dunstons had been taking Greg's cases for years and no other child had ever seemed afraid.

Dick was only ten, though, so maybe that was part of it. The Dunstons were used to teenagers, not ten-year-old boys, and hadn't raised any of their own kids. Maybe they weren't as confident in their abilities to take care of a younger child and their uncertainty was rubbing off on the boy. Or, perhaps they had been frustrated about something he hadn't understood just because he wasn't a teenager. But Greg was positive that Jasper and Matilda would never harm even a hair on the head of any child Greg placed with them. They were nice people and he had no evidence of any wrongdoing on their part. So, logically, Dick was scared because he was ten and didn't know them very well yet.

But…desperate?

Greg put that back in the file cabinet in his mind. It was time to go see Bruce Wayne and take a look at the video of the alleged slap.

He arrived at Wayne Manor at exactly ten o'clock. Alfred opened the door before Greg had a chance to ring the bell.

"Good morning, Mr. Makov," the butler said pleasantly. "Master Bruce is waiting for you in the gym. The video is ready to play in the study but he wants to show you a few things first."

"Good morning to you, Mr. Pennyworth. Lead the way, please."

"If you would like, you may call me Alfred, Mr. Makov."

"Only if you call me Greg," the man stated with a grin.

"Very well," the butler replied with an inaudible sigh. "Follow me, please."

Alfred led the social worker down the hall and into the gym. Bruce was sitting on the same bench Susan had been sitting on when she had interviewed Dick.

He stood up and held out his hand when Greg walked in. Greg reciprocated and Bruce motioned to the bench.

"Have a seat, Greg, so I can show you something."

Nodding, the man sat down where Dick had been sitting on that day. Bruce walked to his left and pointed up at the ceiling.

"You see that?" he asked.

Greg squinted his eyes and searched the corner. There was some sort of tiny, black object situated on the wall but Greg had no idea what it was.

"It's a camera," Bruce answered the unasked question after seeing the confusion on the other man's face.

"Okay," Greg commented.

"It's always on and when the tape is full it is immediately, and automatically, transferred to a server. I won't go into all the technical details. I just need you to know that there is no way for anybody to alter the date or time of any video that comes out of that camera. Or any other camera in my house."

"Okay," the social worker repeated.

"Susan was sitting right here," Bruce explained as he sat down, "and Dick was sitting right where you are now. I just want you to know the layout, so you don't have to try to figure out the location of everything when you watch the video."

Greg nodded then asked, "Is Dick working on that with you?"

He was pointing to Alfred's half-painted mural on the wall.

"He…was," Bruce replied softly.

"Does he enjoy painting?"

"Yes, but it's not something he would choose to do on his own. He would rather read a book or play a game or do something involving a lot of movement," the millionaire replied with a slight grin. "But Alfred drew it so we were painting it. Together."

"Hmmm," Greg murmured thoughtfully. "May I see the video now?"

"Of course, this way," Bruce responded as he stood up. "How is Dick?"

"He seems to be doing fine. I talked to him with the family and I talked to him alone. He is uninjured and had no problem answering questions. I can tell by your face that you are worried about that."

Bruce was surprised that Greg had noticed his expression of apprehension.

"How well do you know this family, Greg?"

"I've been working with them for many years. And I've never had any problems with any of the children that have been placed there. You have no reason to worry, Bruce. They are kind people and would never hurt him."

"You're absolutely sure?"

"Yes," Greg replied firmly. "Absolutely."

Bruce nodded again and led Greg into his study. There were two chairs set up in front of the TV and Bruce offered one to Greg before sitting down himself. He really didn't want to watch this again but he also didn't really have a choice.

Alfred pressed 'play' and the interview began. Greg listened carefully and disbelief began growing in his chest. Dick had been telling the truth; Susan was deliberately trying to turn around everything the boy was saying. She was attempting to trip him up and paint Bruce in a very bad light.

"It's my responsibility to get on the bus!"

"So he's neglected to teach you responsibility, then."

How could she do that to a ten-year-old child?! Greg was growing more incredulous with every word. Susan was one of the best social workers he had ever known, yet here she was confusing the poor boy because of a personal grudge.

And then it happened. Susan said something about selfishness but that flew out of Greg's mind when he saw what happened next.

Dick yelled, "He's not selfish and you're bringing your personal feelings into what is supposed to be a conversation about how I'm doing! You don't even care about me!"

And Susan, without hesitation, had slapped him so hard it had whipped the boy's chin over his shoulder. It was the type of slap a woman should use on someone who was attacking her, not someone who was mad because of the way she was questioning him! And most certainly not a ten-year-old child!

Bruce had jumped to his feet and was pacing with his jaw clenched but Greg didn't even notice. Now he was listening to one of his colleagues commanding one of her children to keep quiet about what had just happened.

The video stopped and Greg sat frozen in horror. He finally noticed the agitated pacing of the man beside him and completely understood why. If someone had slapped _his_ child like that, Greg would have done more than just pace.

"I would like to see what happens next," he said quietly, his voice slightly shaky.

Alfred glanced at Bruce, who nodded and sat back down. Greg watched Bruce storm into the room and demand that Susan leave and take herself off the case. He noticed the other man's eyes give Dick a once-over before he began speaking to the woman. Bruce had checked on Dick first; the boy had been his first priority. Any doubts about the millionaire fled when Greg watched him sit down and carefully examine the small cheek that was now red. There was no way that _this_ man, now gently holding the boy in his arms, was a danger to that very boy.

Alfred stopped the tape again and Greg glanced sideways at Bruce. The millionaire was slouched in his chair, an elbow on the arm of the chair and his forehead resting on his hand. It had obviously been difficult for Bruce to watch and, again, Greg completely understood why.

"It seems that, um, some things have been taken out of context," Greg stated softly.

"You think?" Bruce mumbled sarcastically.

Alfred quietly cleared his throat and the millionaire immediately sat up.

"I'm sorry," Bruce said, "I shouldn't have said that."

"There is no reason for you to apologize, Bruce. I've done almost everything wrong, all because a woman who was holding a grudge gave me some notes. I hadn't seen anything for myself but I used those notes as an excuse to rip him away from everything. To rip him away from _you_. And you, Alfred," he added, glancing at the butler.

"If anyone needs to apologize," Greg continued, "it should be me. I'll close this case when I get back to the office and Dick will be home later today."

"Home?" Bruce asked, disbelief in his voice.

"This is his home, Bruce. You are his parent, in every important way, and I'm deeply sorry about everything both you and he have gone through because of me."

"Mr. Makov, are you saying that we have no reason to worry about Master Dick being taken away?"

"That's exactly what I'm saying, Mr. Pennyworth. He belongs with you two, that's obvious. So, if you'll excuse me, I'll go close a case and retrieve a little boy who has been grieving for you."

"Thank you, Greg," Bruce whispered, looking as stunned as he had the night Greg had taken Dick away. "You don't know…I can't express…I'm…"

"I get it, Bruce. After speaking with Clark Kent, Dr. Thompkins, both of you, Dick, and watching this horrifying video, I finally get it. Dick will be home for dinner."

"Thank you," the millionaire whispered again.

Alfred walked Greg to the door and whispered his own gratitude as the man walked away. Turning back with a slight grin, Greg nodded.

"Thank you for your help, Mr. Pennyworth."

A small smile graced the butler's face and, with a polite nod, he replied, "Mr. Makov."

* * *

**Office of Greg Makov:**

As soon as he returned to his office, Greg called Lisa in and began explaining the situation. She took notes as he talked, gasped when he described the video, and almost cried for the boy she had been holding only five days ago. The boy who was undoubtedly completely traumatized again.

It took the rest of the morning and most of the afternoon for Greg to get everything squared away. At three o'clock, he signed his name on the last piece of paper. With a sigh of both regret and relief, Greg closed the thick file of Richard John Grayson and returned it to his filing cabinet.

Greg sat at his desk for a moment, reviewing everything he had seen and heard. As he himself had said, he had done everything wrong from the very beginning. And a ten-year-old boy had paid for Greg's mistakes.

Shaking his head, the man pushed away from his desk and stood up. Since he wouldn't be returning to his office – it would be almost six o'clock before he dropped Dick off – he grabbed his briefcase and walked out the door. It was time to take Dick Grayson home.

* * *

**The Dunston's house – five hours earlier:**

Jasper and Matilda, after eating breakfast, had decided to go to a movie. They didn't have to go through the family room to get to the car, so the fact that a child was sleeping on their couch didn't even cross their minds.

The rumbling of the old engine woke Dick up. It took him over five minutes to remember where he was. Then it took another five to convince himself that he should get up. When he tried, however, his body refused. The loss of blood had taken its toll. Jasper and Matilda had stopped the blood and covered the injury with several bandaids but that had been the extent of their care.

Finally, he forced himself to move. Sitting up took every ounce of energy he had. Dick knew he needed fluids. He had learned that from Alfred – lots of blood loss meant a transfusion, a fairly small amount of blood loss meant fluids and rest. The boy decided he had done enough resting, although he didn't know how long he had been out.

Standing up made him dizzy and he felt his heart beat speed up. He wondered if that was bad. Dick had to keep one hand on the wall to keep from falling over as he made his way to the kitchen. The only liquid was tap water, and it tasted like dirt.

Getting that one glass had taken all of his energy, and Dick just barely made it to the kitchen table before his legs gave out. He suddenly realized that nobody was home – either they had forgotten him again or just didn't care enough to take him wherever they had gone.

Dick had a decision to make: stay awake and try to get some more fluids in his body, or lay down and go to sleep. He chose the latter. But the floor was not conducive to getting a restful nap, and the couch was somewhat lumpy. So, his foggy brain not even attempting to think of the consequences, the ten-year-old made his way to the Dunston's room. He slowly climbed in their bed, snuggled into the blanket, and promptly fell asleep.

It was a decision he regretted two hours later, when Jasper came home and found the boy in _his_ bed. He had dropped Matilda off at her friend's house for lunch and was looking forward to some alone time. But there was a child in his bed, a child that was very defiant and rude. A child that hadn't applied whatever lessons had managed to penetrate the boy's thick skull and idiotic brain.

"_GET OUT_!" the man thundered, startling Dick into awareness.

When the boy didn't move, Jasper threw the blanket off and grabbed the small arms. He manhandled Dick out of the room and down the basement stairs. The ten-year-old didn't stand a chance against the bony – and deceptively strong – fists. His brain was too full of clouds and his body refused to react.

Dick was against the far wall, by the bookcase. He was too out of it to hear the 'crack' that came from his collarbone, or the louder one that burst from his ribs. At that one, however, his face went pale. Jasper stopped, a little shocked at himself, and Dick slid into a pile of flesh at the man's feet.

"Dang it," the man muttered.

Scooping the boy into his arms, Jasper went up the stairs and, for the third time in as many days, laid an unconscious ten-year-old on the couch.

"At least I missed his face," Jasper growled.

The bruises on the boy's torso would fade before the two weeks were up. There was nothing he could do about the probably broken bones. He certainly wasn't going to take the boy to the hospital.

Shrugging his shoulders, Jasper went into the kitchen and made himself some lunch. Matilda came home an hour later and Jasper told her what had happened.

"I don't know how one person can be so disrespectful and rude!" she exclaimed. "Does he think he owns the house now?!"

The loud exclamation woke Dick up. He immediately felt the flames licking his torso and the grinding of bones in his ribs and shoulder.

"He…lp," he groaned softly, forgetting that he was in the house of the man who had done this to him.

"Well, it's about time you woke up," Jasper stated as the adults walked into the room.

"What on earth made you think that you could sleep in our bed?!" Matilda demanded.

"I don' fe…eeeeel good," Dick slurred.

"Come on, sit up," the woman snapped. "You obviously need to continue your lessons on manners."

Jasper grabbed the boy's arms and yanked him up to sitting, causing Dick to scream in pain.

"Shut up," the man growled as he sat down beside Dick on the couch.

"Now Dick," Matilda began, "I'm going to give you a scenario and you tell me how you should answer."

He caught the words 'Dick…scenario…answer' but didn't know what they meant. Dick knew she had said more than just those three words, but the rest of her sentence was made up of garbled sounds.

Matilda was continuing to talk and Dick had no idea what he was supposed to do or say. So, he guessed.

"Yes, ma'am," he mumbled. "Yes, sir. Yes, ma'am, yes sir."

He continued repeating the phrases. Matilda shook her head, threw her arms in the air, and plopped down on Dick's other side. Grabbing his chin, she turned his head toward her and snapped her fingers. It took over ten seconds, but Dick was finally able to focus on her face.

"Circus trash," she stated. "That's what you are, right? No manners, no respect, no obedience, or anything else that civilized people have. You're just a piece of circus trash."

The words burst through the clouds in his mind and unbidden tears began sliding down Dick's cheeks. Bruce Wayne was a tiny dot of memory in the back of his mind, the only thing the ten-year-old could focus on was the present. So, he didn't remember that the only people who thought he was trash were the two sitting beside him.

"That's what you are, right?" Matilda demanded.

Dick was sure that wasn't right but…what if it was? What if he really was just a piece of trash that nobody cared about? They had forgotten about him and they were the only people he knew. Which meant that everybody knew it, which meant he needed to accept it.

"Yes, ma'am," the boy answered softly.

"Then say it," Jasper challenged.

"I'm circus trash, sir," Dick said, his voice quiet and trembling.

"Now go to your room and stay there," the man commanded.

"Yes, sir."

His body was on fire and his vision was full of black spots. But, somehow, Dick made it to his room. He collapsed as soon as he entered. Leaning against the wall, he closed his eyes and tried to block out the pain. The ache in his ribs, the throbbing in his shoulder, and the cutting words that had just sliced his heart in half.


	31. Chapter 31

Note: Thanks for the review, usagipoints! I, too, hate Jasper. ;)

* * *

**One hour and fifteen minutes later:**

Greg stood at the front door of the Dunston's house, waiting for someone to answer the bell. There were some whispers and then the sound of hurried footsteps. Suddenly, Matilda opened the door.

"Mr. Makov, we weren't expecting you!" she exclaimed with a pleasant smile.

"I know, Matilda, and I'm sorry for just showing up. I've come to collect Dick and take him home."

"What?!" she nearly yelled. "But he just barely arrived!"

"It's been four days," Greg responded, slightly surprised at her tone.

"Yes, of course, I'm sorry, it's just very unexpected," the woman replied, her tone much calmer. "I'll have Jasper go get him, he's been playing in his room. Have a seat."

She motioned to the chair just as Jasper walked into the room.

"Jasper, honey, Greg is here to take Dick home. Go get him, would you?"

The man's eyes widened but he quickly turned away, hoping Greg hadn't noticed the expression. He slowly walked down the hall, trying to figure out how he was going to get Dick to agree to stay silent.

Dick was still slumped against the wall, one arm across his ribs and the other hanging uselessly at his side. He didn't even react when Jasper strode in. Crouching in front of the boy, the man snapped his fingers until he saw the light-blue eyes focus on his own.

"Mr. Makov is here to take you away," he snarled. "But there's nobody in this world who cares about you so you're going to wish you were staying here. Remember this: wherever you go, I will be able to find you. Whatever you say, I will find out. Your disrespect led to what happened; it's all your fault. If you say anything to anybody, or let anyone see any injury, I will know. And I will come get you and you will wish you had never been born. Do we understand each other?"

"Yes, sir," Dick said, fear filling his voice.

"And we will know if you don't apply the lessons on being polite, right?"

"Yes, sir."

"So you will be respectful to everyone, right? You'll call them what they deserve to be called, right? So that I don't have to find you, okay?"

"Yes, sir. I will always use the right words, I promise."

"And what are you?"

"Um, Dick Grayson, sir?" the boy questioned, slightly confused.

"Not who," Jasper growled, "what?"

"Cir…circus, uh…" he couldn't finish, it hurt too much.

Jasper grabbed Dick's upper arms and lifted him into the air. Pushing him against the wall, he glared into the boy's face and repeated his question.

Someone was sawing his shoulder with a sharp knife. Colors were swirling around the room and Dick didn't know which way was up. Too much was happening and his brain refused to handle it so it shut down. Memories disappeared, people got lost in the fog, and the only thing Dick knew was that he needed to be polite.

"Tell me what you are!" Jasper commanded softly.

The boy also remembered this, so he answered, "Trash, sir."

Putting him on his feet, Jasper whirled Dick around and grabbed the hand of his uninjured arm. The man led the boy down the hall and into the family room. Greg stood up when they entered.

"Dick, I'm here to take you home."

Greg didn't receive the reaction he expected. The ten-year-old looked up at him but said nothing. And there was no relief or happiness in his eyes.

Matilda bent down and gave him a gentle hug.

"I'll miss you, Dick," she said but then, in his ear, she whispered, "you rude, idiotic, piece of filth."

"Yes, ma'am," he replied softly.

"Well, Dick, are you ready?" the social worker asked.

The ten-year-old nodded, wondering where 'home' was. Greg held out his hand and Dick slowly slid his much smaller one into it. The man smiled at him and they walked out the door. When they arrived at Greg's car, the man opened the back door and put a hand on Dick's back to guide him in. The boy flinched noticeably and stiffened. Greg furrowed his brow, slightly concerned with the reaction, but Dick immediately relaxed.

And then they were on their way to Wayne Manor. At the first red light, Greg looked in the mirror and studied the boy. Dick was staring straight ahead, his face blank and his eyes empty of emotion.

"You okay, ki…Dick?" Greg asked, a little concerned at the lack of expression.

"Yes, sir," the boy whispered.

"I'm taking you home. To Bruce and Alfred. You understand that, right?"

The pause was a beat too long. Greg instantly knew Dick was lying when he responded.

"Yes, sir, thank you."

The light turned green and Greg shook his head. He hadn't heard the boy speak above a whisper since he had dropped him off at the Dunston's house. But Dick didn't seem mad, like he had before going to live with the Dunstons. And why had he lied about understanding where he was going?

"I can listen while I'm driving," Greg said casually, "if you have something you want to say."

Silence.

"You don't seem too excited to be going back."

Silence.

"Do you have something you want to tell me, Dick?" Greg asked gently.

"No…sir," the boy replied hesitantly, just barely holding back the tears that were threatening to fall.

He wanted to tell the man that, for some reason he couldn't figure out, his torso was throbbing. Dick knew it was because of Jasper, and he knew things had happened, he just couldn't pull the memories to the front of his mind. And who were 'Bruce' and 'Alfred'? People who didn't care about him, he already knew that, but why did the man in the front seat think Dick should be excited to go back to wherever 'back' was?

Jasper's voice was ringing in his ears – everything that had happened was his fault, he was rude, disrespectful, disobedient and a piece of trash. Nobody could ever care about him.

"Okay," Greg sighed. "We have a while, if you ever do feel like chatting."

Dick nodded then leaned his head back and closed his eyes. The pain in his ribs and shoulder was beginning to overwhelm his senses. And his head was throbbing now, too. It hurt so much that Dick knew someone was pounding a nail through his skull and into his brain.

As they were traveling over Gotham's uneven streets, Greg noticed something. The boy winced almost every time they hit some kind of bump. And it wasn't a small reaction. It was a 'hold your breath until it's over' type of reaction. There was a quiet 'whoosh' of air after every wince and by the time they were passing through downtown Gotham, Greg was very concerned.

The man pulled into a parking lot, stopped the car and turned to look at the boy. Dick lifted his head and opened his eyes.

"Talk to me, Dick. What's going on? Is it because of me?"

"No, sir."

"I need to apologize to you. I've done everything wrong; I shouldn't have even taken you away that night we met. There are a lot of things I've learned during this investigation. But there are more that I've learned over my seventeen-year career. And this is one of them: kids who have been crying to go home are usually excited when I tell them that I'm taking them home. You've been crying, but you aren't excited. What's going on?"

"Nothing, sir, I'm fine."

_And I have no idea what you're talking about._

"You're not, Dick, I can see that."

The man watched a single tear slide out of the corner of Dick's left eye.

"I'm fine, sir."

"No, Dick, you aren't," Greg stated firmly. "You were doing fairly well at hiding it until that tear slipped out. Do you want to go to my office and talk about it?"

"No, sir, uh, I don't need to talk, sir."

The sentence had stumbled out of Dick's mouth at a rapid pace, slightly shocking Greg. Had something had happened between the time he had dropped Dick off with the Dunstons and the time he had picked the boy up today?

"Dick," the man sighed, "you are completely safe in this car. Nobody, not the Dunstons or Bruce or Alfred or _anybody_ will ever know what we talk about right now unless you decide to tell them yourself."

Complete silence. Dick began studying his hands.

"Dick?"

"I'm fine, sir," the ten-year-old repeated.

"Okay," Greg replied, starting the car.

He was giving up on talking to the boy today, but he wasn't going to give up on finding out what had happened.

It was almost six o'clock when Greg pulled up to the front steps of Wayne Manor. Dick stared out the window for almost a minute before opening his door. Greg grabbed the suitcase and gently laid his hand on Dick's shoulder. The boy flinched away from the touch with a gasp, and Greg frowned.

"Last chance for today, Dick," Greg whispered as he crouched in front of the boy. "Are you in some kind of pain?"

"No, sir, of course not, sir."

"Okay."

With an inaudible sigh, Greg led the boy up the steps to the front door. He rang the doorbell and watched Dick begin twisting his hands together. Was the boy nervous?

"Master Dick," Alfred stated, relief in both his eyes and his voice. "We have missed you, young sir."

"Dick!" Bruce exclaimed as the boy walked in the door.

The faces were slightly familiar to him. Dick knew them, but couldn't remember why. And the old man had said 'Master' Dick, as if the boy was somehow important. But he wasn't, Jasper and Matilda had taught him that, so the ten-year-old decided that they were mocking him. Tears came to his eyes but he pushed them away.

"Dick, why don't you go help Alfred in the kitchen while I talk to Bruce."

Dick nodded – frantically wondering which one was Alfred. Both the millionaire and the butler looked at Greg quizzically. The social worker gave them a look that shouted 'something is wrong'.

"Master Dick, I've been preparing your favorite dinner," Alfred stated as he gently picked up Dick's small hand. "Shall we go check on it?"

"Yes, sir," Dick answered quietly, grateful that the white-haired man had chosen to pick up his uninjured arm.

Bruce furrowed his brow and Alfred looked slightly shocked. But he led the boy away, knowing that Bruce would tell him everything later.

"What's going on, Greg?"

"I'm not quite sure, Bruce. How often does he use the word 'sir' when he's speaking with either you or Alfred?"

"Never. Why?"

"Every answer he has given me has at least one 'sir' in it so I wanted to know if he was used to doing that here. Does he tend to be soft-spoken?"

"Only around strangers," Bruce replied, his eyes narrowed. "Are you implying that something happened while he was with whomever it was he was with?"

"No…" Greg paused for several seconds. "I don't know," he continued with a sigh. "Perhaps it's just because he was nervous."

"Being thrown in a house with a bunch of strangers and no familiar faces tends to do that to young children."

"Bruce, I know I made a mistake."

"That comment was uncalled for, Greg, I shouldn't have said anything."

"I appreciate that, Bruce. I do have a request. If he says anything at all about whatever has happened – and I feel like something has happened – will you please let me know? I've never had any other children act like this after living with this particular family and it's bothering me."

"Okay, I'll keep you updated. Whatever I find out will be communicated to you as soon as possible."

"Thanks, Bruce. I would like to apologize one last time."

"He's home, Greg, that's the best apology you could ever give me."

"Take care, Bruce, and please let me know."

Greg left and Bruce strode into the kitchen. Dick was sitting at the table, staring intently at Alfred.

"Hey, kiddo," Bruce said as he walked over to his ward. "I've missed you."

The man crouched in front of the boy and stared into the light-blue eyes. There was no emotion – no fear, no happiness, no anger, no anxiety, just…nothing. Then a lightning bolt of confusion flashed through his eyes and Bruce frowned. Why was the boy confused?

"You okay, chum?" the man asked.

Chum. That word was also familiar, but why? And why was this man in front of him speaking in such a…kind voice?

"Yes, sssir," he answered, the last word slightly slurred.

That's when Bruce noticed the bandaids stretched across his boy's forehead. And at that very moment, Dick's eyes grew cloudy. It passed, but now his eyes were darting around the room and Bruce finally remembered that Dick had a concussion.

"We need to take a look at his head, Alfred," Bruce stated, not taking his eyes off his ward. "Do you feel dizzy, kiddo?"

A memory burst through the clouds and Dick lifted a hand to touch his forehead. It was shaking, Bruce noticed, and he suddenly realized how pale the ten-year-old was. That brought back a memory for him: Dick, holding a bright-red towel against his head while blood ran down his cheek.

"Sir," Alfred's calm voice interrupted the younger man's thoughts. "I think we should take him downstairs."

Bruce nodded, his eyes narrowed in concern. Dick, interpreting the expression as one of disgust, dropped his eyes to the floor. He was a piece of trash, nothing more. The man probably didn't even want him sitting on the chair.

"I'm sorry, sir," Dick whispered, quickly standing up.

The movement renewed the pain in his torso and the boy doubled over, wheezing. Wrapping his arms around his ribs caused his collarbone to grind against itself. Dick dropped to his knees then tilted forward. His head would have smashed onto the hard tile of the kitchen floor if Bruce hadn't been crouching right in front of him, arms already outstretched.

"DICK!" the man shouted.

The boy's head lolled to the side and his eyes slipped closed.

"Downstairs, sir," Alfred commanded quietly.

Scooping the boy into his arms, Bruce raced to the service elevator. Impatiently, he waited for Alfred, who was nearly running.

They descended to the Batcave, where Bruce laid the boy on the nearest medical table. Alfred carefully pulled the bandaids off and both men clenched their jaws. The slice, although shallow, was leaking blood. Apparently, the Dunstons either didn't have medical knowledge or they just didn't care enough to try to heal it. Alfred gave them the benefit of the doubt and chose the former. Bruce didn't even consider that; he chose the latter.

"I don't think he needs a transfusion, sir. His heartbeat is steady; he just needs rest. I'm going to give him some fluids, Master Bruce."

Bruce nodded and looked down at his ward. Dick's eyelids fluttered and then the light-blue circles peeked through the lashes.

"Hey, kiddo," Bruce said gently. "You gave us a scare."

"I'm sorry, sir," Dick whispered.

"Enough with the 'sir'. I'm Bruce, you're Dick and that's Alfred," the man said, pointing to the butler.

Alfred had just opened the IV line, allowing fluids to begin flowing into the boy's body.

"I'm sorry," Dick repeated. "Bruce."

The word sounded awkward, as if the boy was attempting to say it for the first time.

"What happened, Dick? What did they do to you?"

"Why are you talking to me?" Dick asked, ignoring the questions.

"Why shouldn't I talk to you, chum?"

"It's not nice to make fun of people, sir."

"What?! I'm not making fun of you. Why would you think that?"

"Sorry, I shouldn't…you're right, sir, of course."

"Dick, stop saying 'sir'!" Bruce commanded loudly.

"Master Bruce," Alfred cautioned.

"What?!" Bruce exclaimed, lifting his eyes to his butler.

"Your tone, sir," the butler stated, a warning in his eyes.

"Circus trash," Dick whispered, causing Bruce to look down at him.

"Jasper's right," the boy continued softly. "That's…I'm…noth, um, nothing."

"Okay, chum, that's enough," Bruce nearly snarled. "Those people are idiotic and I need you to forget everything about them."

"They're the only people I know," Dick whispered, closing his eyes in shame.

That froze Bruce in his tracks. Alfred widened his eyes in shock.

"You don't…_know_ _us_?" Bruce asked incredulously.

"You're Bruce, I'm Dick, he's, um, Alfred? And the guy who brought me here is somebody whose name I can't remember?"

"Mr. Makov, young sir," Alfred supplied gently.

Opening his eyes, Dick carefully sat up.

"I'm not worth any of this," the boy stated firmly. "I'm just a piece of trash, like they said. I shouldn't even be here."

The men were so shocked that they didn't even react when Dick yanked the IV needle of his arm. He rolled off the table but that was as far as he got, his ribs and shoulder causing him to collapse to his knees. Bruce shook himself out of his stupor and snatched the boy off the ground.

"What are you thinking?!" he demanded, placing him back on the table.

"Bru…Bruce?"

Confusion filled Dick's voice as memories began forming in his mind. This man in front of him was Bruce, and the one behind him was Alfred.

"Do you think I'm circus trash?" the ten-year-old asked quietly as a tear slipped down his cheek.

"Of course not, chum. Did they tell you that?"

"I forgot you," Dick admitted softly, his voice full of shame.

"You've been through a lot."

"He's going to find out, he can't find out!" Dick suddenly exclaimed.

"Nobody's going to find out anything, kiddo," Bruce replied.

The man clenched his jaw and curled his hands into fists. Dark, unyielding fury began filling his body. Jasper Dunston was going to regret every second of the last five days.

"Sir, Mr. Makov needs to know about this," Alfred remarked, interrupting Batman's thoughts about what he was going to do to Jasper.

Silence reigned and the butler made a decision.

"Master Bruce, please return to the Manor," Alfred commanded quietly. "I'll take care of Master Dick while you call Mr. Makov."

"Alfred, I…"

"Out, sir, and do it now."

Alfred's voice was firm and his tone demanded compliance. He was not going to allow Batman to see Dick's torso until he was sure the man could handle the sight without exploding.

"Al…"

"The study to call Mr. Makov and then the gym to beat some sense into one of those dummies. Do not come back down here, sir, unless I allow you to do so. Tell Mr. Makov that there is something he needs to see immediately. There is no room for compromise here, Master Bruce. Do as I say and do it now."

Batman growled but Bruce turned around and stalked to the service elevator. He stormed to his study, looked up Makov's personal number and dialed.

"This is Greg."

The man sounded tired. Bruce didn't know why and, really, he didn't care.

"This is Bruce. We would like you to return to Wayne Manor as soon as possible. There's something you need to see."

"He talked to you?"

"Yes and no but this is something you need to see for yourself."

Bruce's tone was full of anger but Greg recognized that it wasn't directed at him. And the word 'see' filled the social worker with dread.

"I'll be there in thirty minutes, Bruce."

They hung up and Bruce immediately sprinted to the gym, where he set up a punching dummy and began fighting it like it was the Joker.

Dick, meanwhile, was in the process of attempting to carefully pull his shirt off. It wasn't working but he didn't want Alfred to help.

"Master Dick," the butler said softly, "I'm going to see everything anyway. It might be less painful if you allow me to help, young sir."

There was a long pause and Alfred watched the wheels turn.

"Okay," Dick finally agreed. "Just, please, my shoulder…"

"Of course, young sir, I will be as gentle as possible."

Carefully, the butler maneuvered the shirt up and over the boy's head. He did his best not to jostle the injured shoulder but he knew, from the sound of Dick's wheezing, that any small movement caused pain.

The front of Dick's torso was mottled with bruises. Alfred guesstimated at least three minutes worth of fighting. Had Dick been able to defend himself? If he had, the fractured collarbone – that the butler of course immediately noticed and evaluated – would have taken most of the fight out of him.

"The man is right-handed," Alfred murmured, noticing that almost every major injury was on Dick's left side.

"I do…don't feel…"

The butler swiftly snatched a trash can off the floor, just in time for Dick to throw up into it.

"Severe concussion, then," Alfred remarked. "Look right here, Master Dick. Please follow my finger."

The butler held up a finger and moved it side to side then up and down. Dick's gaze was all over the place; rarely was it on the finger.

"I…I can't find it," he softly exclaimed, dismay in his voice. "I'm sorry!"

"There is no need to fret, Master Dick. I'm merely checking your symptoms and you have nothing to be sorry about."

"It hurts, Alfred. Everything."

"Do you want to talk about it, Master Dick?"

"No."

The answer was immediate and had a tone of finality.

"You're going to have to tell Mr. Makov, young sir."

"If Jasper finds out…"

"I'm quite positive that Jasper will be going to jail, Master Dick. You need not worry about him anymore."

"Batman's going to kill him."

"Which is why I sent Master Bruce out of the room. I need to talk to him, young sir, so do you mind excusing me for a few moments?"

"Can you do anything to make it stop hurting so much?"

"I'm afraid not, Master Dick, but only because Mr. Makov needs to see it. After he has left I will do my best to take care of the pain."

"Okay, I guess you should talk to Bruce."

"I'm sure he'll be in the gym but, just in case, I want you to stay here. It might be…safer, young sir."

"Safer?!" Dick exclaimed.

"If I can't stop a raging Batman, I cannot allow him to see you. However, I'm quite sure I will be able to calm him down. Staying here is just a precaution, young sir."

"Okay," Dick agreed, his voice somewhat skeptical.

"Trust me, Master Dick."

The boy nodded and Alfred left.

By the time the butler arrived at the gym, Bruce had shredded two dummies and was working hard on the third. Pictures were flying through his mind, images of broken ribs and an old man using a young boy as his personal punching bag.

"Sit down, Master Bruce," Alfred commanded.

The younger man growled and attacked the dummy more ferociously.

"I told Master Dick to stay downstairs because it might be safer, sir, so you should sit down."

Bruce gave the dummy one last torso-tearing punch and then dropped to the floor. He was sweating and flushed with anger.

"Safer?! What happened?!" Batman growled.

Ignoring both the exclamation and question, Alfred continued, "Master Dick chose to save the story for when Mr. Makov is here so I don't know the details. What I do know is that you need to see his torso before the man arrives. I can't have Batman reacting to it in front of Mr. Makov. However, I will not bring him to you if you cannot control yourself."

"Is it…bad?" Bruce asked, his voice almost timid.

"Yes, sir – two broken ribs, a fractured collarbone, a swollen jaw, a black eye, a very severe concussion, and his torso is quite colorful."

"How severe?" Bruce interrupted.

"He couldn't even follow my finger and he threw up. Sir," Alfred sighed, "there was nothing for him to throw up. He hasn't eaten for a while, I think."

"That son…"

"However," the butler quickly interrupted, "Master Dick is being extremely strong and I need Batman to reciprocate that strength. You cannot fly into a rage, or begin yelling at him, or demand answers from him. Batman needs to stay out of this, for now. It needs to be Bruce Wayne talking to his ward. Do you think you can see him without terrifying him, sir?"

"I…"

"In other words, sir, can Bruce Wayne be as strong as a ten-year-old boy?"

"When you put it that way…you make me sound like an idiot, Alfred."

"That was not my intention, Master Bruce, but you already know that."

Bruce ran a hand through his sweaty hair then stood up and walked to the gym door.

"He is worried about Jasper, sir," Alfred said softly. "Please try to reassure him that Jasper will never be able to hurt him again, Master Bruce."

Nodding, Bruce walked to the living room while Alfred returned to the Batcave to retrieve the ten-year-old.

Dick was pacing nervously. Alfred's words had been slightly terrifying but he trusted the butler. If anyone could calm down a hero full of rage, it would be Alfred.

"Come with me, Master Dick, all will be well."

Nodding, the boy walked toward the elevator and they went up to the Manor.

"He's in the living room, young sir, and I will stay by your side."

Dick timidly crept into the living room, Alfred right behind him. Bruce was leaning against the fireplace, taking deep breaths with his eyes closed. Alfred was right – Batman needed to stay out of this. For now, anyway.

"Master Bruce."

Bruce opened his eyes to see a nervous-looking Dick chewing on his bottom lip.

"Come here, chum," he said quietly.

Dick slowly walked over and stared up at his guardian. The boy's light-blue eyes were full of trust but outlined with apprehension.

"I'm just going to examine you, if that's okay. I don't want you to be afraid of me, Dick."

"Okay, but I'm not afraid of you," Dick replied, surprise filling the words. "Why would I be afraid of you?"

"Well, you've noticed before how I act when something happens," Bruce stated as he stared at the colorful torso. "I don't want to scare you, or have you think that I'm mad at you."

"Bruce," Dick stated calmly, "now I know what 'mad' looks – and feels – like. You get frustrated because you can't stop everything bad that happens to everyone. But you don't get 'mad' like other people do."

"I do get mad, Dick."

It was a struggle, but Bruce finally tore his gaze away from the obviously broken ribs. Dick needed him to listen.

"I know," the boy sighed, "but only when you see or hear about an injustice. You don't get so mad that something like this happens," Dick gestured to his torso, "just because I break a rule. You're not – _Batman_ is not – the bad guy. He takes down the bad guys, so I have no reason to be afraid of you."

"Do you want to, uh, talk about it?" Bruce asked hesitantly.

"No, Jasper will know. He's already going to know I showed you! He's going to come for me and I'm going to be in trouble and he said I would regret being born and I don't want to do that because I'm glad I'm alive even though my parents died but I have you guys and I don't want to forget that but I did forget because of the basement and then…"

"Hey, hey, chum, calm down!" Bruce exclaimed.

Dick's chest was heaving, panic racing through his body.

"Nononono, he's going to know," the boy moaned. "And I'm sorry…"

Without warning, Dick stumbled to the fireplace, dropped to his knees and began gagging. There was nothing left for him to throw up but his concussed mind didn't care about that.

Bruce was by his side in the blink of an eye, Alfred close behind. The younger man pulled the boy into his arms. Dick's entire body was trembling.

"When's the last time you ate, kiddo?" Bruce asked, rage filling his body.

"I…don't know," the ten-year-old replied in a shaky voice. "Or maybe I do but just don't remember. I forgot a lot of things."

Bruce hummed in sympathy. Gently, he picked Dick up and strode to the couch. He sat down, keeping the boy in his arms. Just then, the doorbell rang. Alfred went to answer it and quickly returned with Greg Makov beside him.

Greg stared at the scene and guilt filled his chest. _He_ had taken Dick away from this. The ten-year-old was curled in a ball, his face turned into Bruce's chest and his body trembling.

"Dick," Bruce whispered gently, "Mr. Makov is here. Do you want to tell him what happened?"

"No," came the muffled reply. "But I will anyway."

The boy sat up but his hands latched onto Bruce's arms. Greg got his first good look at the boy's torso and the guilt in his chest flooded his entire body.

"I'm so sorry," the social worker said softly, shock in his voice.

"They ignored me," Dick began. "I wasn't sunburned because I forgot to put on sunscreen. They forgot about me after telling me to go out to play. I'm sorry I lied."

Bruce nearly let out a Batman-like growl. How does one just _forget_ a child?!

"But it was okay. I was just kind of lonely but it's not a big deal."

"Yes, it is," Bruce muttered.

"Can we talk about the bruises?" Greg asked.

Dick glanced at Bruce, who nodded and said, "I won't let him get you, chum."

Greg looked a little confused. Bruce was about to explain, but Dick began quoting. He sounded like a robot, except for the fear in his voice.

"There's nobody in this world who cares about you. Wherever you go, I will be able to find you. Whatever you say, I will find out. Your disrespect led to what happened; it's all your fault. If you say anything to anybody, or let anyone see any injury, I will know. And I will come get you and you will wish you had never been born. Do we understand each other?"

The millionaire's body went rigid. If Dick hadn't been sitting on his lap, he might have gone after Jasper right then. All three men were speechless.

"He knows my name," Dick whispered fearfully. "He knows I told you. He's going to come get me."

"Dick…" Bruce began.

The boy jumped to his feet, wincing at the pain in his ribs.

"I'm sorry, sir, I'll be polite. You don't have to tell him because I'll always say 'sir' and ma'am' and I'll never be disrespectful and I'll always do exactly what you say. Sir!"

"Dick…" Bruce tried again.

"I'll write it if you want, sir. One hundred times each. Or I'll go stand against the wall, sir, and say it over and over."

"Dick…"

"I'm sorry I interrupted you, sir!" Dick yelled, panic in his voice. "Please, I'm sorry, I'll do better! SIR!" he screamed at the end.

"Master Bruce, he's becoming hysterical," Alfred said, stating the obvious. "Mr. Makov, do you mind if we give them some time alone? Just for a few minutes."

Greg was in shock but he quickly nodded. He and Alfred left the room and the butler took him to the kitchen.

"This is all my fault," Greg said sadly as he sat down on a nearby chair. "He's going to be more traumatized than he has already been! I'm such an idiot!"

"My two boys are quite close, Mr. Makov. Master Bruce will be able to calm him down and bring him back to the present."

And that's exactly what Bruce was attempting to do. Dick was on his knees now, practically begging his guardian not to tell Jasper.

"I'm not going to…"

"He's going to be so mad," the ten-year-old whimpered.

"Well, he'll just have to be mad in a body cast, then, because that's what is going to happen," Bruce snapped.

The tone startled Dick. He lifted his head and stared into the smoldering, furious, dark-blue eyes of Batman.

"He's not here, Dick, and he never will be," Batman stated authoritatively. "If he ever comes here – which he won't – he will be incapacitated before he steps inside."

Batman retreated as Bruce knelt down beside Dick.

"You're safe, chum," the man said calmly, using a hand to sweep the bangs away from Dick's eyes. "It's over and he's going to jail."

Two tiny tears slid down the boy's cheeks. Bruce gently brushed them away with his thumb then easily picked Dick up. He sat them on the couch again, and soon the ten-year-old was curled into his chest, just as he had been when Greg Makov had first arrived.

"Do you think you can finish your story, kiddo?"

The boy nodded and sniffled. Alfred, at that very moment, peeked in to assess the situation. Bruce gave him a short nod and the butler entered ten seconds later, Greg following behind.

The silence was awkward; nobody knew how to pick up the conversation.

Finally, Dick's soft voice floated around the room.

"I didn't want to go into the basement. It was dark and there were no lightbulbs. So I tried to get away so he got mad and pushed me down the stairs."

_And that's how you got the concussion._

That thought manifested itself in the heads of both Alfred and Bruce.

"What else?" Bruce encouraged as Dick sat up.

"I was bloody so I got tired but I couldn't sleep on the floor because they don't have a mattress and they were gone because they forgot about me again, I think, so I went to their bed and he found me and took me downstairs and I tried to block but I was dizzy and his fists are bony and it hurt _so bad_."

"He has two broken ribs and a fractured collarbone, Greg," Bruce explained.

"What?!" the social worker exclaimed.

"And now we know why, Mr. Makov," Alfred chimed in.

Suddenly, every single thing that had happened flew out of Dick's mouth, from the moment Greg had dropped him off to the time the man had picked him up. Memories were racing around in his brain, overwhelming him. In the middle of the explanation, he began yelling. By the time he was done, he was angrily screaming.

"Don't be shocked, Mr. Makov," Alfred whispered discreetly.

"ENOUGH!" Bruce commanded loudly.

Dick immediately quieted down and curled back into the man's chest.

"Please don't take me away," he mumbled, tears in his voice. "He's not mad at me, please don't take me again."

Alfred had told Greg not to be shocked but it had happened anyway. Bruce sounded almost exactly like he had the night Greg had taken Dick away. But the effect on Dick was exactly the opposite than what it should have been. Instead of being terrified, or startled, or upset, the ten-year-old was resting peacefully on the chest of the man who had just yelled at him.

No, Greg reflected, 'yell' wasn't the right word. The tone hadn't been angry, it had been commanding. But, not in a bad way.

The social worker suddenly realized that Dick had been speaking to him.

"I'm not taking you anywhere, Dick," he assured the boy. "This is where you belong; it was my fault you were even there."

"And it was my fault for having an argument with you," Bruce chimed in.

"And it was my fault that I overreacted to hearing that argument," Greg countered.

"Stop!" Dick demanded loudly, sitting up again. "It's Jasper's fault, and Matilda's fault. Neither of you had any control over their actions so please don't blame yourselves."

"Are you going to take him to a hospital?" Greg asked.

"Um, we were going…"

"Oh, right, to the clinic," Greg interrupted. "We need pictures and Dr. Thompkins will need to sign some paperwork. Dick's entire body is evidence so we need as much documentation as possible."

Dick looked at Alfred and mouthed 'Dr. Thompkins?' to which the butler silently replied 'bullet' and Dick understood.

Dick jumped in and stated, "I don't think you should use them anymore."

The three men just stared at him. A slight smirk manifested itself on the boy's face.

"They think their current house is small; wait until they see their new one."

"Are you…making jokes?" Greg asked in disbelief.

"Only you, kiddo," Bruce mumbled.

"If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a phone call to make. The clinic will have closed by now but Mr. Kent will hopefully be able to reach Dr. Thompkins. I would like to get Master Dick in to see her as soon as possible."

Greg nodded and Bruce responded, "Thank you, Alfred."

"Well," the social worker said as he stood up again, "I have a lot to do now."

_Like call the families of eleven other kids and ask about their time at the Dunston's house._

"Greg," Bruce suddenly began, "didn't you tell me these people had taken care of other kids?"

"Yes, but nobody ever…if I had known then I wouldn't have placed Dick there."

"I know that. But why?" Bruce asked. "Why do you think the other kids stayed quiet?"

"Jasper's mean and scary?" Dick suggested.

Bruce nodded in agreement and Greg looked thoughtful.

"I don't know, Bruce. I mean, all of those kids practically grew up with me as their case manager. They trusted me, so I assumed, anyway."

"Were they older than me?" Dick asked quietly, his bottom lip trembling.

Both men looked at the ten-year-old and Bruce stated, "Never mind. You and I can discuss this later, Greg."

"No," Dick said. "Were they? Because, if they were, maybe they didn't break as many rules and maybe they were polite all the time and never did anything wrong. Maybe it's just me being an idiot and not saying the right things and disobeying and failing at everything."

Tears were shining in the boy's eyes but he refused to let them fall. It was always Dick's fault, just like Jasper had said.

"No, kiddo, stop thinking like that," Bruce commanded gently. "None of this is your fault and you're not an idiot or a failure or a disappointment or anything else. How many times have I told you that you're smart?"

The question was answered with a small grin on the ten-year-old's face.

"I'm so sorry you went through all of this because of me," Greg stated, looking directly into Dick's eyes. "I never should have taken you in the first place and I regret every second, especially now."

"You didn't know," Dick replied, his voice shaking only slightly, "and I don't blame you. Are you going to call the police?"

"Of course," Greg answered.

"Can you tell them that, since they aren't villains, they're just regular people, can you ask them to leave Batman out of it?"

Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to stifle the growl.

"I think the police can handle the Dunstons, Dick, but I'll pass along your request. I'm glad you're back where you belong."

With that, Greg left and Bruce heaved a giant sigh.

"You had to do that, didn't you," he muttered.

"I'm helping you stay strong. If I can last four days with them, Batman can wait at least a week to talk to them. And maybe Batman will decide not to visit them at all. Maybe he'll decide that since the boy is back with Bruce Wayne and the criminals are kind of old, he can just leave the whole situation alone."

"Dick, you are one of a kind, kiddo. I would give you a giant hug but I don't want your shoulder hurting more than it already is."

"Sometimes," Dick stated quietly, "things that bring us pain also help take the pain away."

Bruce carefully pulled the boy down so his head was resting on the man's strong chest again. Dick snuggled in and Bruce could hear the tiny wheezes that were the result of the light pressure of the hug. But, he also knew that the tears now soaking his chest weren't ones of pain.

"I'm glad you're home, chum," the millionaire whispered.

"Me, too," the boy mumbled sleepily.


	32. Chapter 32

Note: Thanks for the comments, usagipoints! :)

The name changes (Batman to Bruce and Bruce to Batman) are completely intentional. I didn't forget who I was writing about. :)

* * *

**Later that night:**

Alfred had enveloped Dick's ribs and shoulder in a thick layer of Bat-wrap. He had also called Clark, who had called Leslie, but she hadn't answered. So, they couldn't go see her until the morning.

The men had decided to stay in Dick's room for the night, just in case something – a nightmare, perhaps – happened. Dick had protested at first, saying they also needed to be able to sleep, but he had lost the argument in the end. Bruce, having not seen his ward for almost five days, refused to leave. Alfred was there to keep Batman away; he could see the millionaire struggling to contain his emotions.

It turned out to be a rough night. Dick could only lay on his back and he became rather uncomfortable after a while. He was tired but his entire torso, including his shoulder, was sore. Even the Bat-aspirin wasn't helping very much.

Bruce was on his usual chair and he had brought another one in for his butler. Eventually, everyone fell asleep. But it didn't last long. Ten minutes after falling asleep, Dick woke up, slightly panicked. He was in a soft bed, and Jasper was going to find out and take him to the basement again.

Silently, he climbed out of bed, doing his best to leave the unfamiliar men undisturbed. Dick thought about leaving the room in order to roam – he certainly couldn't go to sleep on the hard floor in his room – but the door was closed and he didn't want to risk making even the softest of noises. So, he began pacing around the room, flinching with every step that jostled his shoulder.

Bruce was asleep but Batman was listening. He didn't hear the boy get out of bed, but he did hear the soft wheezes that were coming from random directions. Slowly, the man opened his eyes, preparing to surprise and attack whomever had dared to break into the Manor. The first thing he saw was an empty bed. And, at that very moment, a wheeze passed directly behind him.

Batman instantly jumped to his feet and spun around. There was a shadow drifting along the far wall, so Bruce immediately turned on the bedside lamp. The shadow turned out to be Dick, who immediately froze and stared at him with wide eyes full of trepidation.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to wake you," the boy whispered, his voice shaking slightly.

"What are you doing, chum?"

The words woke up Alfred, who stared at the scene in astonishment.

"Um, trying to leave you alone, sir? I know I shouldn't be in here, sir, but I didn't want to wake you up by leaving. I'm sorry."

Dick's voice sounded a little confused, like he wasn't quite sure where he was.

Bruce stood by the table, shock in his eyes. But he quickly recovered and walked toward his ward. Dick took a small step back, hit the wall, and winced.

"I'm Bruce, kiddo, and you're back in Wayne Manor," he stated softly as he stopped walking. "You don't have to use 'sir' and I'm not upset that I'm awake."

"I'm sorry, sir, I don't know a Bruce. Are you Jasper's friend? Sir?"

"Master Dick, Jasper isn't here and we are most certainly not his friends."

"But he's coming, I know he is! And he'll take me to the basement and…um…and…"

The boy trailed off. He couldn't remember what he had been about to say, but he was sure it was something that would get him in trouble.

Alfred watched his older charge carefully. Bruce had his hands clenched into fists but he didn't look like he was about to explode.

"Dick, you're not with them and they can't come get you. You're safe with us, with Alfred and I. Even if he did come, he wouldn't get to you because I would take care of him as soon as he set a single foot in this house."

The millionaire's voice was gentle at first but it ended in an angry growl.

"Master Bruce," the butler cautioned softly.

"I'm fine, Alfred, thank you," Bruce replied, without taking his eyes off his ward.

Dick suddenly couldn't breathe so he made a fist and pounded it against his chest. Not caring about the consequences, Bruce raced to his side and caught the boy's arm before it could hit the broken ribs again.

"Breathe," he commanded, staring into the light-blue eyes of a terrified-looking Dick. "You're going to hurt yourself more so just breathe with me."

He placed Dick's hand on his chest and began taking slow, deep breaths.

"My head hurts," the ten-year-old wheezed after almost thirty seconds. "And I don't, I'm sorry, I don't _know_ you. I'm not supposed to talk to strangers."

There was a long pause and then Dick's eyes filled with panic again.

"I'm not supposed to be here! Jasper…"

"…isn't here, young sir," Alfred quickly finished the boy's sentence.

"And he never will be," Bruce added, "because if he I ever see his face I'm going to pound…"

"Master Bruce," Alfred reprimanded, just loud enough that Bruce would understand his warning.

"I…um, I'm confused," Dick admitted.

"The last four days were extremely traumatic for you, chum, but it's over. You're in Wayne Manor, where you belong. I'm Bruce and that's Alfred and nobody in this house is ever going to hurt you. I promise."

"Master Dick, you're stressed and terrified and a little bit lost. It might take a few days for everything to return to normal, but I also promise you that nobody in this house will ever harm you."

"I'm…sorry," the ten-year-old responded. "I just don't want to do anything wrong. I don't want to go to the basement again."

"Kiddo, even when you make a mistake, nothing physical is going to happen to you. _Ever_. We'll talk about it and I'll help you understand why we have the rule and what you can do to remember it. I will never, EVER, hit you."

"Bruce?" Dick questioned, a sliver of recognition in his eyes.

"Yes…"

"I forgot you again, didn't I," the boy said sadly. "I'm sorry."

"Kiddo, you have a concussion. A _severe_ concussion. I would be very surprised if your memory was absolutely perfect right now."

"He threw me down the stairs," Dick explained, not remembering that he had already told them everything. "And they forgot about me. Will you forget about me, too?"

"No," Bruce nearly growled as a picture of a lonely, forgotten ten-year-old jumped into his head. "Not ever. You're too important to forget."

"I…I am? But I'm just circus…"

"You are an amazing person, Dick," the man quickly interrupted. "And anybody who tries to tell you differently is an idiot. Now, you need to get some sleep."

Bruce, without the boy noticing, had led Dick back to bed.

"I tried to block, like you taught me," the ten-year-old said. "But it was really hard to see and I was really dizzy."

Bruce was seething inside again. A different picture popped into his head: Dick, dizzy and floundering against a wall while Jasper threw bony fists against the small body. Looking down at his boy, who was already asleep, he wondered how any adult could decide that it was a good idea to do something like that.

"I'm going to kill him," Batman stated matter-of-factly. "I'm going to tear him into little tiny pieces and then I'm going to put him back together so I can beat him to a pulp and then I'm going to kill him."

"No, sir, you aren't," Alfred responded patiently. "Think about what that would do to Master Dick."

"It would erase his fears of the man finding him," Batman snapped.

"And he would place the blame entirely upon himself for telling you. Do you really want him to spend the rest of his life feeling guilty because he thinks it's his fault that Batman broke his number one rule, sir?"

"No," Batman grumbled. "But it's not his fault," Bruce stated.

"_We_ know that, but that's not how he will see it, Master Bruce. You know he would blame himself, sir, just as you are blaming yourself right now."

"Why do you always have to be so wise?" the younger man mumbled in defeat.

"You should get some sleep, also, Master Bruce," the butler answered with what could almost be described as a smirk.

* * *

**The next morning:**

"That's horrible, Alfred! I didn't even…I should have thought to listen for him! Thanks for letting me know. They're here; I'll take good care of them. Yes, _both_ of them," the man stated before hanging up the phone in his car and climbing out.

"Clark!" Bruce said in surprise as he and Dick exited the helicopter. "What are you doing here?"

"Checking on both of you, of course," the other man replied with a grin. "And to be your chauffeur for the day. Hey, Dick, how are you feeling?" he asked, his tone a little softer.

"Um…not great," the boy admitted, "but better than yesterday."

"Sorry you had to go through that, Dick."

"What doesn't kill you makes you better at protecting yourself, right?"

Clark glanced at Bruce, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged.

"I think the end of that is 'makes you stronger'," Clark stated.

Dick shrugged his uninjured shoulder and replied, "Close enough."

They were in the car now and Clark was heading toward the clinic.

"So, um, Dr. Thompkins really lied for us?" the ten-year-old asked.

"Yes, but we're going to have her look at the bullet wound, also, so it's not a complete lie," Bruce responded. "I guess."

"No matter what," Dick mumbled.

"What was that, chum?"

"Nothing," the boy answered.

Clark glanced back in the mirror but said nothing. He had no idea what the phrase meant but was sure that Batman, for some reason, wouldn't be happy if he had heard it.

"Here we are," Clark stated.

"You did pretty good," Bruce commented casually.

"_Pretty_ good?!" Dick exclaimed. "I can't believe you put this together in only a few hours!"

"He is Superman," Bruce grumbled, and Clark grinned.

Doris was at the desk again and there was a real patient in the waiting room.

"I forgot to tell you," Clark whispered as they sat down as far from the man as they could. "Leslie, uh, opened her own practice. And I think part of it might be funded by you."

Bruce shook his head but stated, "That's the least I can do."

Clark nodded and glanced at Dick. The boy had chosen to stand and had one arm wrapped around his ribs. Bruce noticed the look.

"He took him into the basement. Dick had a concussion and couldn't even think straight, much less defend himself," the millionaire whispered so softly that only Superman could hear it. "Two broken ribs and a fractured collarbone, in addition to all the swelling on his face."

"You're not serious!" Clark exclaimed, almost as quietly.

"Would I joke about something like this?!"

"Can I kill him after you do?"

"Alfred made a good point about that," Bruce grumbled with a sigh. "Dick would blame himself for the rest of his life. He would think that it was his fault for telling us."

Superman mumbled something unintelligible. Batman had no idea what the other man had said but he nodded in agreement anyway.

"Dick Grayson?" Doris asked quietly.

The ten-year-old nodded and carefully walked to her desk.

"Dr. Thompkins is ready for you. Do you want the men to come back with you?"

"Um…" Dick paused then looked back. "Am I going to have to tell her every single thing?" he asked as he turned back to Doris.

"Just enough that she knows what she needs to do to treat you," Doris explained.

"Well, they don't know _everything_ so maybe I should go by myself. They don't need to be more frustrated than they already are."

Doris nodded in agreement. She, like Dr. Thompkins, knew that Clark was Superman and had heard of Batman's temper.

"Do you want me to tell them?" the woman asked.

"Um, no, I'll do it. I don't want them to get mad at you," he said with a small grin.

She nodded again. Dick turned and walked back to the men.

"I'm going by myself," he declared softly.

"No, you're not," Bruce almost growled.

"Is it your choice?" Dick asked.

"I'm your guardian," the man retorted.

"And I'm in charge of my own body so if I say you can't go back then you can't go back."

Bruce had nothing to say to that.

"Go ahead, Dick, I'll take care of Bruce," Clark stated.

Dick nodded then turned to Doris and said, "I'm ready."

The woman stood up, walked behind her desk and opened the door between the waiting room and the patient rooms. Immediately, the man on the other side of the room jumped up.

"I was here first!" he exclaimed. "The kid can't go back until after I do!"

"Mr. Dimp, you are getting a flu shot," Doris replied calmly. "The nurse will be with you in a moment, as soon as she is done with her other patient."

"_I don't care_!" the man yelled.

Dick shuddered at the sound and Doris gently pushed him behind her. Bruce stood up and walked over to the man, Clark following behind, just in case.

"The lady just told you that you are not going back yet," Bruce said in an imposing voice. "Therefore, you aren't going back yet."

"_Who are you to tell me what to do_?!" the man shouted.

Clark saw the change in Bruce's demeanor so he stepped in front of his friend.

"I'm Clark Kent, reporter for the Daily Planet," he said evenly. "Do you want your face plastered on the front page because you yelled at a nice woman who is just doing her job? If she says the boy needs to go back first because he needs to see the doctor while you need the nurse, then she obviously knows more about the situation than you do."

"_You think I'm going to back down because of a freaking reporter_?!" Mr. Dimp screamed.

"No," Clark replied, his tone still calm, "I think you're going to back down because it's the right thing to do. Do you have children, Mr. Dimp?"

"What does that matter?" the man mumbled.

"If one of your kids was injured and I needed a flu shot, who would you want the woman to call back first?"

"Whoever was here first."

"Let's say it was me and I had been waiting for fifteen minutes."

"Still…"

"What if your child came in limping because of a sprained ankle?"

"I'm not a doctor! How would I know it was sprained?!"

"Exactly, Mr. Dimp."

A lightbulb went off in the man's head and he sat down. Doris and Dick had already disappeared, leaving the men to take care of the situation. Clark turned around and pushed Bruce back to their chairs.

"Nothing would have been gained by the way you were about to do it," Clark stated.

Bruce, who had been tense and ready to put the man in his place, released a frustrated breath and sat down.

"Shut up," he mumbled rudely and Clark smirked.

* * *

**Dr. Thompkins' office:**

"Good morning, Dick, I'm Dr. Thompkins," Leslie said kindly as they sat across from each other at her desk.

"Hi," Dick said timidly.

"Do you want to go into a patient room or do you want to do everything right here?"

"Um, I don't know," he replied softly.

"I think you will be more comfortable if we talk in here."

"Okay."

"So, let's start at the beginning. You can tell me whatever you want. I might need more details about some things but if you don't want to tell me then we can move on to the next subject. Is that okay?"

"Sure."

"Whenever you want to take a break, we can take a break. If you want Bruce to come back here at any time, just let me know and I'll send for him."

Dick nodded but remained silent.

"Take your time and start when you're ready. I have no other appointments and Doris knows that I'm booked for the day."

"The whole day?!" Dick exclaimed. "For me?!"

"Yes," Leslie replied, "the whole day. But you don't have to stay the whole day, of course. When you want to be done, we're done."

"Um, maybe you should look at my shoulder first? Where the bullet was. Since, you know, you lied for me and everything. Bruce said if you do that then you wouldn't have been completely lying, right?"

"It's true, I did tell a lot of lies," Leslie admitted. "But I would do anything for a certain hero out there, which means I would do anything for that hero's best friend who also happens to be a hero."

She smiled and Dick grinned back. He rolled up the left sleeve of his shirt and waited.

"How about if we go sit on the couch? Then I can check you without either of us walking around my desk all the time."

Dick agreed and they moved to the couch. Leslie put on some gloves and gently probed the wound that was almost completely healed. The fractured collarbone did not escape her notice, but she decided to wait for the story.

"Clark told me the butler did this for you."

The boy nodded and Leslie murmured, "He did a good job."

"Alfred's a pretty amazing man," Dick responded.

"Sounds like you live with two pretty amazing men," the woman remarked. "The bullet wound looks good, Dick. Can we talk about what happened during the last four days?"

"Yes," Dick replied softly. "I'll start at the very beginning."

The story poured from his mouth for the second time in less than a day. Leslie kept her face neutral, as she always did when hearing stories like this. Dick remembered most of the details, although some of the tiniest ones were lost. He didn't know how many hours he had been outside when they had forgotten him. However, he told her where the sun had started and ended so together they made an educated guess.

Leslie was both impressed with his strength and horrified at his lack of medical attention. If Dick had heard the 'cracks', which he had told her he had, then certainly the man had heard them. She had seen many cases like this in her career, but every one of them had been in a hospital setting. Did Jasper just expect the bones to heal on their own without proper treatment?!

After the explanation, Leslie asked if she could look at his injuries. She reminded him that he could have someone in here if he wanted to and he thanked her but refused.

"Do you need help taking your shirt off?" she asked quietly.

Dick nodded without a second thought. He had discovered that the pain was easier to bear when someone assisted him. Alfred had helped him figure that out. Leslie gently eased the shirt up and over his head then heard a relieved sigh when she was done.

She gently unwound Alfred's careful wrapping job and began probing Dick's ribs. Two were obviously broken and two more were moving awkwardly, as if they were ready to be torn in half. The collarbone didn't feel like a serious fracture but Leslie wanted x-rays to be sure.

"Dick, we have an x-ray machine here and I need to check some of your bones. Can we go do that? You can bring Bruce or Clark with us, if you want."

"How can you check my bones if they're inside my body?"

"X-rays show us the inside of your body…"

"Like Superman's eyes?" Dick interrupted then immediately apologized for doing so.

Leslie laughed, accepted the apology and answered, "Yes, like Superman's eyes."

"Okay, well, I'm okay with that, I guess. Why don't you just have Superman do it?"

"Well, we need evidence against the people who did this and Superman's eyes can't give us pictures."

"Oh, okay. Will it hurt?"

"No, all you have to do is stand behind a little screen and I'll take a picture. I want to do each side of your body so it will take a few minutes, but it won't hurt at all."

"Okay. I have a high pain tolerance level – that's what Bruce said – so even if it did hurt I think I could do it."

"Good…"

"I went for a month without them knowing about a nearly fractured rib and a bunch of bruises."

"When was that?" Leslie asked in confusion.

"Last year, when I first came here, um, I mean, to Gotham City. Obviously not here."

"Obviously," Leslie replied with a grin.

"I also had some other, um, accidents but you can ask Bruce about those. Or Clark. He knows some of them."

"I'll look at your paperwork later and then call Bruce if I have any questions. I'm sorry you've been through so much, Dick. Gotham City hasn't been very kind to you."

"Well, Gotham does need Batman a lot so I guess it's not very kind to a lot of people."

That was an astute observation, especially for a ten-year-old.

"Has anybody ever told you that you're smart?" Leslie asked.

"Well, I passed out of two math books and Bruce sometimes says I say things that are a little too wise for my age. Is that what you mean?"

"That's exactly what I mean. Is there anything else you enjoy doing?"

She was leading a shirtless Dick down the hall now, toward the last door that led to the x-ray room.

"I like to read and tumble."

"Clark has told me about your acrobatic abilities. I've always wanted to fly through the air and tumble my way through life."

"Yeah, it's pretty fun. Oh, and now Bruce and I are painting a wall. Alfred drew a giant picture of a jungle – to hide the blood when _she_ came – so now we're painting it. Well, we were, before all this happened. But we'll probably start again soon."

"I'm sure you will. Why did you have to hide blood?"

"Oh, she came a couple of days after I was, um, my shoulder, you know?"

"Yes."

"And we couldn't let her know because then she would take me away. So I didn't wear the sling to school and a little girl squeezed my arm on the bus and that really hurt. But we decided to use a lot of red on the picture because when kids paint they get stuff on their shirt. So we put some red paint on my shirt and she didn't even know it was a little bloody. Bruce and Alfred are pretty smart. Well, it was Alfred's idea but Bruce added stuff."

"Okay, Dick, I need you to stand right here…"

"And _she_ was mean when she talked to me and tried to make Bruce sound horrible but I told her not to do that and she slapped me."

"What?!" Leslie exclaimed, carefully positioning his body behind the x-ray screen.

"Yeah, and because of that Mr. Makov came over and that was the night Bruce and I had an argument about, um, a certain hero, and Mr. Makov didn't care. He just took me away without even talking to us about it. And then all of this and now I'm here."

"Wow, you really have had it rough. Thank you for telling me all of that. And I'm done."

Leslie had taken pictures of everything she needed to without him even noticing.

"Really, that's it?"

"Yes, really, that's it," she replied with a grin. "Let's go back to my office, get you dressed and then you're done."

"Oh, okay, thanks."

They began walking down the hall again, going back the way they had come. Suddenly, a bout of dizziness assaulted him and Dick swerved. He almost ran into the wall but Leslie was able to steady him before that happened.

When they got to her office, she sat him down on the couch again and pulled a penlight out of her pocket.

"I'm going to check your eyes, Dick, you were a little shaky out in the hall. Open wide, please."

He obeyed and she shined the bright light in his eyes. Dick flinched but kept his eyes open.

"Looks like your concussion is going to take a while to fade away," she commented. "You're looking a little lost, Dick. Are you with me?"

"Hmmm?" he murmured.

"Dick, can you find my finger with your eyes?" Leslie asked, concern in her voice.

Patiently holding one finger right in front of his face, she watched his cloudy eyes search the room. Changing her tactic, she held up three fingers, hoping a bigger target would help him latch onto it.

"Dick."

Leslie paused, watching his eyes carefully. They suddenly began to clear and he was finally able to focus on her hand. Going back to one finger, she moved it slowly side to side then up and down. His eyes followed, although they were lagging by a quarter of a second.

"Hey, Dick, you back with me now?"

Furrowing his forehead in confusion, he asked, "Did you go somewhere?"

"No, you were just having a little trouble focusing. I'm going to wrap your ribs and you get a sling…"

"Again?" Dick almost whined.

"Unless you don't want your collarbone to heal."

Sighing in resignation, he waited for her to wrap his ribs then help him put on his shirt.

"I'm going to go get Bruce, since we're done. I want you to just lay down for now, okay? Just rest for me. We'll put that arm in a sling before you leave."

"Okay," Dick answered with a yawn.

He laid back on the couch and closed his eyes. Leslie walked out of her office and quietly shut the door behind her. Two minutes later she was back outside the closed door, Bruce and Clark standing right beside her and listening carefully to her explanation.

"He was really out of it for almost five minutes," Leslie stated. "I know he could hear me because his eyes were searching for my voice. I don't think he understood he was looking for my fingers, but he knew he was supposed to find me. When he did come back to me, he was slow to follow my finger, but he was able to do it. His concussion is more than just severe, Bruce. This might affect him for longer than we originally thought."

"When you say more than 'just' severe," Bruce began, "are you thinking brain damage?"

"I'm not sure. I want to give it a week's worth of observation. Here's what I need you to do. Clark, this is a prescription for pain. He's going to be having a lot of headaches and of course his ribs and collarbone are going to give him difficulty. If you could go get that and maybe meet them back in Gotham?"

"Sure," Clark replied, immediately leaving out the back door.

"Bruce, I need you to watch him carefully. If he starts slurring or he passes out, you need to take him to a hospital. You need to wake him up every three or four hours during the night, which mean he's going to be tired all the time. Don't allow him to shower by himself, or use stairs without somebody next to him. I don't think I have to tell you that tumbling is off limits because of more than just his head. Does that all make sense?"

"Yes," the man nodded. "So do I need to bring him back in a week?"

"Absolutely," Leslie said firmly. "If his behavior changes in any way, make note of that, also. He might zone out once in a while, too. If his eyes glaze over or suddenly start darting around the room, get him to focus on you as quickly as you can."

"What do you mean?"

"Well, he seems like a usually happy child?"

Bruce nodded so she continued, "He'll probably be grumpy because he's tired. But if it's random – like you're playing a game and he's having fun and suddenly he's bursting into tears – write it down. I need to know when, what he was doing, and how it changed. And there's nothing wrong with a dip in concentration once in a while, it happens to everybody. I just don't want him there for a long period of time."

"Don't sugarcoat, Dr. Thompkins," Bruce suddenly commanded. "Do you think he has brain damage?"

Sighing, Leslie replied, "From what he told me, it was a pretty long flight of stairs and he fell from the very top. I have to admit that it's a possibility, yes."

Fear crept into his expression and Bruce's heart dropped into his stomach.

"It's also possible," she continued, "that it is merely a long-lasting concussion."

"_Merely_?!" Bruce almost shouted.

"When compared to brain damage?" Leslie retorted. "Yes, merely."

"How often have you seen something like this be 'merely' a long-lasting concussion?"

"To be perfectly honest, Bruce, I've never treated a child who was pushed down a flight of stairs. I've had my share of 'fell out of a tree' and 'fell off the trampoline' and things like that. Contrary to popular opinion, one of the rarest excuses for evidence of any kind of abuse is 'I fell down the stairs'."

"Leslie."

"Bruce, it's impossible to know right now! If you have to take him to the hospital because he's slurring or passing out, then I will say it's definitely brain damage. If he's like this all week and I check him out here next week, I'm going to lean toward concussion."

"Lean toward it?!"

"Listen, just follow my instructions and I'll see you next week. I know you're concerned but I can't predict the future. Right now he's resting, and he's allowed to, just don't let him sleep for more than four hours at a time."

Nodding, Bruce said, "Thank you. I'll have Alfred call and set up an appointment."

"I'm putting his arm in a sling, which he's very disappointed about, but his collarbone won't heal properly if he's using his arm all the time. He can take an hour break from it every once in a while but not too often. At night, of course, it can stay off.

Bruce, I know this is a lot but he's been through a lot. Dick is going to be tired, and grumpy, and in pain so you're going to have to be patient with him."

The man raised his eyebrows and Leslie sighed.

"I didn't say you aren't patient with him right now. I'm just telling you that his personality is probably going to be much different from what you're used to. Now, go get your son and take him home."

They entered the office, where Dick was peacefully resting. Bruce could tell he wasn't yet asleep, but also knew he was tired.

"Dick," Leslie said quietly as she knelt by the couch. "I need you to wake up; it's time to go home."

The ten-year-old mumbled something and turned his head away from her voice.

"You can take a rest at home, chum," Bruce stated as he crouched down by Leslie. "But we have to get home first."

"Okay," the boy mumbled as he forced his eyes to open and slowly sat up.

Leslie had the sling ready and, before Dick could react, his arm was nestled inside the soft material. The boy gave her a half-hearted glare and Bruce cleared his throat.

"Thank you, Dr. Thompkins," Dick stated quietly. "I didn't mean to glare, it's just that I hate this thing."

"I know, Dick, but if you want your bones to heal correctly, you have to use it."

"All day and all night?"

"No, you can take a break once in a while and you don't have to wear it at night."

"Okay, thanks."

"You're welcome," the woman said as she stood up.

Bruce joined her and then helped an unsteady Dick to stand up. He gently put his arm around the boy's shoulders, fully expecting to have to guide him to the car.

"My head hurts," Dick said as they walked out of Leslie's office.

"I know, chum, but Clark went to get you some medicine for that."

"How are we going to get home?"

"Clark took a…different mode of transportation and gave me the keys to his car."

"Okay."

"Thank you, Dr. Thompkins," Bruce stated when they got to the door leading into the lobby. "We'll see you next week."

"You're welcome," Leslie replied with a smile. "Close observation," she whispered discreetly.

Bruce nodded then led Dick out of the clinic and into Clark's car.

"How are you feeling, kiddo?" he asked.

"Tired and my head hurts," the ten-year-old replied.

"I'm going to tell you what Dr. Thompkins said because I think you have a right to now."

"Okay…?"

"You can't sleep for more than four hours at a time, which means I'm going to be waking you up a lot. You're going to be really tired and sore and have good-sized headaches once in a while. She also said you might have abrupt mood swings…"

"What's a mood swing?"

"It's when you go from one emotion to another very quickly. For example, being happy and then suddenly bursting into tears," Bruce answered, using Leslie's illustration.

"Okay, is that bad?"

"Not necessarily, I just want you to be aware."

There was a long pause; Bruce was unsure about telling him the next part. He was saved by a helicopter, because at that moment they arrived at the helipad.

He helped Dick out of the car, across the cement, and into the helicopter. To his surprise, the ten-year-old wasn't swerving or unsteady on the short walk. It was too loud to talk in the helicopter, saving Bruce again from having to go on with the discussion. And when they got home, Dick immediately went to the couch in the living room and laid down.

Bruce followed him, but the boy was asleep before he could say a word. Superman arrived ten minutes later with two bottles of liquid medicine.

"Leslie said he can only have this three times a day and at least six hours have to pass between doses," the hero stated.

"Clark, I…"

"Don't worry, Bruce," Clark stated when the other man paused. "I already know what you're trying to say."

With a grin, Superman walked out the door and flew back to Metropolis.

"He's a good friend, Master Bruce," Alfred commented as he walked into the room. "A _very_ good friend. You should let him know that some time, sir."

Bruce mumbled something about butlers and reporters then looked down at Dick, glaring at the wounds he knew were under the boy's shirt and wishing he could go visit Jasper.

"I took the liberty of making the appointment, sir. Dr. Thompkins told me exactly what she told you."

"What if…"

"Hope for the best, Master Bruce. That, and watch him carefully, as the good doctor advised, sir."

"Should I tell him? I was going to…"

"That, sir, is your decision. However, it is my opinion that wondering whether or not he has brain damage will only stress him further, Master Bruce."

"I feel like I'm lying to him," Bruce countered.

"Sometimes, there are things that people should not be made aware of until the theory has become a fact, sir."

"Brussss?" Dick mumbled.

"He slurred!" Bruce quietly exclaimed, panic filling his chest.

"He is merely waking up, Master Bruce," Alfred replied calmly. "Give him a moment, sir."

Dick slowly sat up and Bruce sat down beside him.

"Everything hurts," the boy admitted.

"It's a good thing Superman is fast, then," the man replied with a smile.

He poured the correct dosage of medicine into the small cup and Dick quickly drank it down.

There was a long pause and then Bruce softly stated, "I'm sorry, kiddo."

"Me, too."

"You have no reason…"

"I shouldn't have…you were right."

"About what?" Bruce asked, completely confused.

"I'm glad you came to me instead of changing into Batman. I might not even be here if you hadn't. Maybe I would have been placed with _them_ after getting out of the detention center. If I ever actually got out of the detention center. I'm sorry for getting mad at you."

"And I'm sorry I yelled at you because of it. If I hadn't been yelling, Mr. Makov would have had no reason to worry about your safety."

"I thought it was supposed to be two weeks?"

"He…discovered some things about us and about Miss Jameson. Clark helped, Dr. Thompkins helped, Alfred helped, even Miss Jameson slapping you helped. Although I hated having to watch it again."

"And you helped," Dick commented. "Didn't he interview you?"

Bruce nodded and the boy continued, "Then he must have realized that you're much more than a man who got into an argument with his ward."

"Son," Bruce automatically corrected and then widened his eyes. "Sorry, chum, I shouldn't have…I'm not trying to take his place…I didn't mean…"

"Stop," Dick lightly commanded. "You're not taking his place, or even trying to. You are the closest thing I have to a dad so, um, you can call me that. I mean, uh, if you want to, um, I don't know if you _really_ want to and, um, you don't have to if it makes you feel embarrassed or anything. Or if you think I'm not good enough or whatever."

"Dick, why would I ever be embarrassed by you?" the man asked gently.

"I, um…I don't know."

"That's because I'm not, and never will be. And, like we've discussed before, you're more than just 'good enough'. Your name is still 'Dick', though, so that's what I'll call you," Bruce said with a small grin. "But you are like a son to me, chum."

"You're my best friend," the ten-year-old suddenly blurted, tears shining in his eyes.

"And you, kiddo, are mine," the man said, his grin turning into a smile.

"Except for Clark. He's your first best friend."

"He's not my…"

Bruce paused then rolled his eyes.

"Fine, he's my friend. But you're my best friend."

"You should tell him that. He already knows, but you should tell him anyway."

"Thanks for the advice," Bruce mumbled. "You should try to get some more rest."

"I'm feeling better, though. Can I have some lunch?"

"Of course, chum! Do you think you can walk to the kitchen or do you want it in here?"

"Well, I can't feel my torso so I'm pretty sure I can make it."

"You can't…?"

Bruce grabbed the bottle of liquid medicine and looked at the label. Instead of the name and dosage, he read:

Special family recipe. Numbs for about an hour but is very strong so no more than three times a day. Take good care of him. Clark

"Dick," Bruce declared, "I have a phone call to make. Wait here and I'll be back soon."

But the boy had already closed his eyes again. His breathing was deep and even and there were no signs of pain floating across his face. So, Bruce went to his study to make a phone call to a man who, although that man already knew, should be told that he was the millionaire's friend.


	33. Chapter 33

Note: Thanks for the comment, usagipoints! :)

From now on, just so I don't have to say it every time, all name changes are intentional.

* * *

Bruce took the rest of the week off, making it easier for him to keep a close eye on Dick. They were constantly together and Alfred loved watching them interact with each other. The butler was concerned about the reason for all this togetherness, of course, but the sound of Dick's light laughter and Bruce's more rumbling chuckle was music to his ears.

It was difficult for Bruce to watch his boy lose track of where they were in a game, or be eating a meal and suddenly begin staring at nothing. He hated the fact that Dick's head was constantly hurting. The boy never complained, but sometimes the man would watch the young features crumble into a look of anguish that would last for several moments. The longest had been twelve minutes and fifty-two seconds. During that one, Dick had grabbed his head and snuggled into Bruce's chest, tears leaking out of his closed eyes while he tried to ride out the pain.

And there was nothing Bruce – or even Batman – could do about it. The medicine from Clark took away the pain radiating from the boy's broken bones but it didn't seem to help Dick's headaches very much.

Bruce went one step further than what Leslie had told him. He began quizzing the ten-year-old on all sorts of subjects, from history to math to remembering the plot or details of a book he had recently read. The man wove the questions into their conversations so effectively that the boy didn't even know he was being tested.

Until day four, when Bruce asked a question that was too simple. Dick stared at him for a moment, confusion dancing in his eyes, then his face morphed into a look of complete distress. Fear took the place of confusion as a thought jumped into his mind.

"Are you…_testing_ me?" he asked.

Bruce glanced away guiltily before decided to go with the truth.

"Yes."

"_Why_?!" Dick nearly shouted.

"Well, you have a concussion and it seems to be lasting longer than a normal one."

"There are 'normal' concussions?!"

"Most last for the same approximate amount of time, but no concussion is normal. That's not the word I should have used. But yours is lasting a little longer than some severe concussions."

"Do you think I'm losing things? Like, my memory or intelligence or…"

There was a short pause and then the boy whispered, "Am I…_brain damaged_?"

This was the conversation Bruce had not wanted to have. He had taken Alfred's advice and had never spoken about the cause of Dick's headaches.

"BRUCE!" the ten-year-old exclaimed frantically when the man remained silent. "Please tell me I'm not!"

Bruce sighed, not knowing quite how to say it.

"Les…Dr. Thompkins said it could be a possibility," he finally acquiesced. "But not a surety," he added as he watched the tears begin streaming down the young face.

"That's why we're always together," Dick accused. "Not because you want to be, because you _have_ to be!"

"That is completely untrue," Bruce stated firmly. "I enjoy being around you and we have fun together, right?"

"Yeah, but are you just pretending?" Dick asked in a small, timid voice.

"Why on earth would I do that?!" Bruce almost shouted.

"Master Bruce?" Alfred asked as he hurried into the room. "What happened, sir?"

"Did you know, too?" Dick demanded, anger replacing the tears. "Did you know this whole time that my brain could be damaged?!"

Guilt filled the butler's eyes as he said, "Yes, Master Dick, but we were only trying to protect you. We did not want to put more stress on you, young sir."

"By _lying_ to me?!"

"Dick," Bruce sighed, "see how upset and stressed you are right now? This is exactly what we were trying to avoid."

But Dick was lost. Somewhere in the fog that was his brain, the boy knew he was supposed to be upset about something. Someone had been talking but now Dick was confused and somebody was pounding a nail into his brain.

"Dick?"

He heard his name but couldn't find the voice. The sound was familiar and he wanted to find the person that belonged to the voice. But all he could see were clouds – gray clouds bumping against each other and throwing stones at his skull.

Bruce pulled Dick to the couch and sat him down. Crouching in front of him, the man held up three fingers. Leslie had told him to give the ten-year-old a bigger target at first. The boy's eyes were glazed and his body was trembling.

"Come on Dick, come back to me, chum," he murmured.

It wasn't working so Bruce gently cupped the small cheeks with his hands. He held Dick's head still and watched the boy's eyes flit about the room.

"Right here, Dick, I'm right here," the man stated loudly. "Look at me, kiddo."

It took longer than usual, but the ten-year-old's eyes finally cleared. The first things he saw were the concerned eyes of his guardian.

"Hey," the man whispered softly. "You feeling okay?"

"No," the boy whispered back. "Are you pounding a nail into my head?"

"No."

"Is Jasper here? Is he pounding the nail?"

"No and no. Remember, he can never come near you again."

"Okay, but maybe I should…"

Dick's chest started heaving and his throat began making noises that were, unfortunately, very familiar to Bruce. Alfred was already on top of it, grabbing the always-present bowl and passing it to his older charge.

"It's okay, chum," Bruce said, still speaking softly.

The nausea passed quickly and everyone was surprised that nothing had happened.

"Well, that's a good sign, right?" Dick whispered hopefully.

"I truly don't know, kiddo, but we'll take it as a win. Doing okay now?"

"No," the boy replied honestly. "Someone is still pounding a nail into my skull."

Alfred had dimmed the lights, easing the pressure on Dick's optic nerves.

"I think you should take a little rest. Down here or up in your room?"

"Here, I don't feel like moving."

"Okay."

"Will you stay and read a book to me?" Dick asked, pain filling his voice.

"Sure, chum, of course."

"Just don't read too loud, okay?"

"Of course not," Bruce responded with a small grin.

"It's just that sometimes you do but I know it's by accident. Maybe don't say anything, just read it to yourself."

"Okay," Bruce acquiesced with a quiet chuckle.

"And will you kick whoever is pounding the nail out of the house, please?"

The sentence was mumbled as Dick drifted off to sleep. Bruce hadn't even had time to get up and find a book.

"Sleep well, chum," he said softly. "See you in four hours."

Standing up, the millionaire went to Dick's favorite blue chair, sat down, and picked up a well-worn copy of "Moby Dick".

* * *

**The next day:**

Dick was tired. Tired of everything. Too little sleep, constant headaches, and the pain of a still-healing collarbone. And the fact that he could be brain damaged was adding more stress. As was the knowledge that both Bruce and Alfred were worried about it, too.

He decided to try to block out all the pain and work on his concentration. If he could _make_ his brain stay focused, maybe it would all go away and everything would be fine. But adding that to his already overloaded senses backfired.

They were eating lunch. Well, Bruce was. Dick had an elbow on the table, his head propped up on his hand, and was staring listlessly at his bowl of soup.

"You have to eat, chum," Bruce stated quietly.

"Too tired."

"It will help with that. Alfred put some extra protein and iron in this one."

Dick suddenly sat straight up, eyes widening in both surprise and fear. He watched his soup spill over the edge of the bowl and spread across the table. Then, horrified at what was happening, he watched it morph into a combination of two men: Mr. Mack on one side and Jasper on the other. It was creepy and terrifying and he couldn't hold back the scream.

Bruce had immediately noticed the change in his boy's demeanor. He had no idea what was happening; all he knew was that Dick's eyes had gone from blue to nearly black and his expression was frozen in a mask of terror.

The man jumped up from his chair and was by Dick's side in less than five seconds.

"Dick!" he yelled, trying to be heard over the scream. "Dick, I'm right here, you're safe!"

That wasn't working so Bruce hauled the ten-year-old off the chair and dropped to the floor, Dick landing safely on his lap.

"It's not real, chum, whatever you're seeing isn't real!"

Alfred was suddenly standing beside them, his demeanor both calm and concerned.

"How can I help, sir?" he asked quietly.

Bruce was trying to force Dick's head against his own chest, knowing that the sound of the man's heartbeat was usually comforting to the boy. But Dick was struggling and whimpering and watching the half-Mack half-Jasper apparition stride toward him with a knife.

"I don't know," Bruce answered, his voice tense. "I don't know how to help."

"Get away from me," Dick mumbled, terror in his voice. "Please, go away."

"It's not real," Bruce repeated. "You're safe."

"He's coming, they're coming," the ten-year-old continued to mumble. "I'm dead, we're all dead, they're coming for us all."

"Nobody…"

"You can't stay!" Dick suddenly yelled. "Run away, it's me. Leave, Bruce, and take Alfred with you. They're coming for me; you'll be safer away from me!"

Batman growled and tightened his grip on the boy. Obviously he was hallucinating but who was he seeing? Which of the many tragedies in his life was he experiencing all over again?

Dick was struggling harder now, attempting to escape so the person he was naming Macsper would come after him and leave the men alone. But it wasn't working, because even if Bruce wasn't Batman, he was certainly stronger than a ten-year-old boy.

"NOOOOOO!" Dick screamed, horrified when the knife was plunged into Bruce's chest. "No," he whispered shakily, "no, I can stop the blood, I can save you."

The boy pushed his hands hard against the man's chest. But the blood spilled over his hands and down Bruce's body, creating a crimson pool on the floor.

"Dick, nobody's bleeding!" Bruce exclaimed. "We're safe, we're all safe!"

"No, don't leave me," Dick whispered as tears began streaming down his cheeks. "Not again, I can't lose again. Please don't leave."

"I'm here, kiddo, I'm not leaving," the man whispered back, his heart breaking from the anguish in Dick's voice.

The ten-year-old suddenly went limp in the man's arms.

"Nonononononononono," Dick mumbled sorrowfully as his body began trembling.

Bruce tipped his head to the right, searching for his boy's eyes. They were dilated, the black of his pupils almost entirely covering the usual light-blue. And they were full of grief.

"Dick, chum, it's okay," Bruce tried again. "I'm here, Alfred's here, nobody's dead and we're all safe. Please come back to me."

"I'm going to call Dr. Thompkins, Master Bruce," the butler stated quietly.

Bruce nodded and guided Dick's head softly onto his own chest.

"It's okay, kiddo, calm down," he whispered in the boy's ear, his tone almost pleading.

"Why does everyone have to die?" Dick asked, his voice muffled and thick with emotion. "Everybody I love…why do they all die? Is it because I'm not good enough…I don't deserve to have someone to love?"

"Hey," Bruce chided gently, "don't ever say you're not good enough, or that you don't deserve something."

"You're dead, you can't tell me what to do."

"I'm not dead, Dick. If I was dead, would you be able to hear my heartbeat?"

There was a long pause. Bruce felt Dick press his ear harder against his chest, searching for the thumping sound.

"No," the ten-year-old stated sadly. "No heartbeat."

Bruce pulled Dick away from his chest and forced him to sit up straight. The boy's eyes were light-blue again, but they were empty. There was no emotion and no recognition.

"Dick!" Bruce said loudly. "Look at me, chum!" he commanded.

Slowly, Dick turned his head and stared straight into the man's dark-blue eyes. Then the emotions came: sorrow, confusion, fear, anger, disbelief, and finally a tiny shred of hope. They danced awkwardly through the light-blue circles, crashing into each other before racing away. The hope, however, stayed.

"Bruce?" he questioned softly, raising his hand and lightly touching the man's cheek. "You're not…dead?"

With a small grin that caused Dick's hand to rest on his jaw, Bruce confirmed, "I'm definitely not dead."

"But…Macsper and the knife and so much blood coming out of you…"

Bruce didn't know what Macsper meant but he now understood what Dick had seen.

"There's no knife and there's no blood, kiddo," he assured the boy.

Just then Alfred re-entered the room.

"Dr. Thompkins wants to see him, sir. As soon as possible."

Nodding, Bruce placed Dick on the floor beside him, stood up, and quickly gathered the boy into his arms again. It happened so fast that Dick didn't have time to register the fact that Bruce had let go.

They were in the helicopter ten minutes later and landing in Metropolis twenty minutes after that. Clark, having heard from Alfred again, was there to greet them. He ushered them into his car and headed straight for the clinic.

Bruce didn't even stop in the waiting room. He walked through and strode to Leslie's office, depositing a still-trembling Dick on the couch and sitting down beside him.

Leslie didn't waste time. She was instantly beside them, checking his eyes and vitals while listening carefully to Bruce's description of the incident.

"Okay, Dick," she said when the man had finished. "Do you want to tell me what happened?"

"I don't remember," he responded after a short pause.

"I think you do," she replied, noticing the hesitation in his eyes.

"Leslie," Bruce warned, an edge of disbelief in his tone, "do you think he's lying?"

"Look at his eyes, Bruce," she stated sharply. "Do _you_ think he doesn't remember?"

The usually-observant Bruce had been so focused on trying to calm the shaking of Dick's body that he hadn't even noticed the flash of guilt. Dick immediately dropped his eyes to the ground. And Bruce just as quickly lifted the boy's chin with his finger.

"What happened, chum?"

"I don't know," the ten-year-old said softly. "One minute I was staring at my soup and the next minute you had a…a…"

"A what?" Bruce lightly demanded.

"Macsper, he, um, he put a…what's it called? Um…you use it with butter and it's sharp? I mean, it must be sharp because there was blood pouring from your chest."

"A knife?" Leslie supplied.

"Yeah, that's it. Sorry, I forgot."

"No need to apologize," she stated with a smile. "What else did you see?"

"And what's a 'macsper'?" Bruce added.

"Oh, well, the guy who…you know…um, half of him was Mr. Mack and the other half was Jasper."

The sentence was nearly inaudible and fear was woven through the words. If the situation hadn't been so serious, Bruce would have laughed. Only someone like Dick would combine two names like that.

"Dick, I'm going to do some tests, if that's okay. We don't have to go anywhere, I'm just going to check your brain."

"Okay," the boy replied softly.

"Tell me something that happened yesterday."

"Um, Bruce told me I could have brain damage…"

"He _what_?!" Leslie nearly shouted, sending a dark glare in the man's direction.

"You didn't…" Bruce began.

"Why do you think I told you _outside_?!" the woman demanded.

Bruce glared back but didn't answer. She was right, of course, and he hated being wrong.

"It's okay," Dick interrupted the glaring contest. "What else?"

Returning her focus to the boy, Leslie continued, "Okay, tell me something that happened last week."

"I forgot Bruce and Alfred."

"Last month?"

"_She_ slapped me."

"Last three months."

"I turned ten," he stated with a small grin.

"Six months."

"Christmas."

"What about it?"

"We kind of, um, skipped it?"

Leslie glared at Bruce again.

"But it wasn't his fault," Dick quickly added when he noticed the look.

"Okay, the last year."

"He shot the wires and they died," the ten-year-old whispered sadly.

"I'm so sorry, Dick," Leslie murmured sympathetically. "What's the earliest thing you remember from your life?"

"I was born at a very early age," the boy replied with a small grin.

A chuckle escaped from Bruce and Leslie shook her head in amusement.

"Um, I almost got stepped on by an elephant."

Both adults raised their eyebrows in surprise.

"I was two, I think, and one of the elephants was sick. He didn't want the medicine because he didn't like shots so he ran away from the doctor and straight at me. Mom and Dad were flying so they couldn't get to me. And that's how Jerry the clown got three broken ribs."

"He grabbed you and received a kick to the chest?" Bruce guessed.

Dick nodded then said, "See, I can remember stuff!"

"Yes," Leslie agreed, "I think this was an anomaly. It might be a combination of how tired you are and how many things have happened to you. I think everything overwhelmed you for a moment. How are you feeling now?"

"Better and, um, I think I know why," Dick confessed.

"You know why what, chum?"

"I might know why this happened."

This time both adults looked slightly confused.

"I _am_ tired," he began. "Tired of wondering if my brain is going to work right, tired of always seeing concern in everyone's eyes and knowing it's my fault…"

"It's not your fault," Bruce interrupted but Dick held up his hand.

"I tried to make everything go away," the boy continued. "I tried to focus on blocking everything out but then I kind of just floated away."

"Floated away?" Leslie asked.

"Yeah, it sounds dumb. But everything faded except for my soup, which turned into Macsper and murdered Bruce. I don't know how you came back to life," he ended, glancing at Bruce.

"The whole thing was a hallucination, chum. I didn't die."

"Can I take a nap?"

Bruce glanced at Leslie, who nodded then glanced at the door.

"Sure, kiddo. I'm just going to talk to Dr. Thompkins for a minute so you lay down and rest. I'll be right back."

"Okay," Dick said with a small yawn.

Bruce helped him lie down then stood up and followed Leslie out of the room.

"Well?" the man asked as the woman closed her office door.

"He tried to force himself to heal and it backfired," she replied simply. "Now that I know that, I'm no longer concerned."

"You're…_not concerned_?!" Bruce quietly shouted in disbelief. "He just had a hallucination about somebody killing me!"

"He's going to be fine, Bruce," Leslie stated calmly. "He's stressed and terrified and worried. He needed some kind of confirmation that his brain was doing okay; his subconscious provided it."

"So you're saying that because he's hallucinating, he's fine."

"I'm saying he's _going_ to be fine. He combined two people he doesn't like…"

"Is _afraid_ of," Bruce corrected.

"…into a different creature and gave it a name. He knew you were in danger – you said he told you to take Alfred and run away – but not because of anything you had done. They were coming after him and you are an extension of him, therefore you were in danger.

If his brain was actually damaged, Bruce, none of that would have happened. He wouldn't have been able to name it the way he did and you probably wouldn't have even been in the hallucination."

"So because he made up a name and saw _me_, he's going to be fine," Bruce stated incredulously.

"I know it sounds ridiculous. Bring him back in two days for his appointment. Don't be surprised, Bruce, if you see some rapid improvement. Now he knows what happens if he tries to force it. He's an intelligent child, I doubt he'll do that again."

"Rapid improvement," Bruce repeated, disbelief still evident in his voice.

"Think of it like a reboot."

"A…reboot," the man sighed as he shook his head.

"His brain needed a reboot, he accidentally supplied it in a way that wasn't very fun for him."

"Is there a 'fun' way to reboot a brain?"

"I don't know, I've never had to do it. And you can let him sleep without waking him up."

"I can?!"

"He rebooted himself…"

"He's not a _robot_!"

"I was trying to put it in terms you would understand."

"I'm not stupid, Dr. Thompkins," Bruce said stiffly, anger outlining his voice.

"I agree, Mr. Wayne. But you are also not a doctor. I thought it would be easier on us both if I skipped the medical jargon."

Bruce immediately deflated with a short nod. He opened the door and strode over to the couch. To their surprise, Dick was wide awake. His mouth was moving and his eyes were flicking from side to side.

"Dick?" Bruce asked, crouching beside him. "What are you doing?"

"Counting the dots on the ceiling."

"Why?"

"Because I feel like it."

Behind Bruce, Leslie grinned. The ten-year-old was, either knowingly or unknowingly, flexing his brain muscles. Dots, like the ones on the ceiling, were being connected and gaps were being closed. He was going to be fine.

"Well, Dr. Thompkins said we can go home."

"Okay."

Dick sat up and winced.

"Headache?" Bruce asked, not missing the reaction.

"No, collarbone," he admitted.

"Have you been wearing your sling, Dick?" Leslie asked.

"Yes! I took it off before lunch, though, and then this happened so I didn't really think about putting it back on."

"Understandable," Leslie replied. "Put it on when you get home, okay?"

Dick nodded and Bruce helped him stand up. They both thanked Dr. Thompkins then went to the waiting room. Clark, having heard the entire conversation between Bruce and Leslie, was grinning.

"Ready?" he asked.

Both Bruce and Dick nodded so off they went. A little less than an hour later they were back in Wayne Manor. Clark had already talked to Alfred and the butler encased Dick's arm in the sling as soon as they walked in the door.

"Guess what, Alfred! Dr. Thompkins said you guys don't have to wake me up at night anymore!" Dick exclaimed happily as they walked into the living room.

Alfred looked to Bruce, who nodded.

"Care to explain, Master Bruce?"

"Dr. Thom…"

"She said I rebooted my own brain!" Dick interrupted excitedly. "Something about overwhelming it or making it too tired and so it restarted itself."

His entire face lit up with a proud grin, his light-blue eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.

"How do you know that?" Bruce asked suspiciously.

"Bruce," Dick stated, his voice somewhat exasperated, "did you really think I would just lay down and wait for you guys to finish talking about me?"

"You were at the door," the man said with a slight grin.

Dick nodded as he sat on the couch.

"And the counting?"

"I guesstimated the total amount of dots and was counting backwards to make my brain work harder. She said I'm going to be fine, Alfred!"

"Master Dick, that is wonderful news!"

"We still need to keep the appointment, though," Bruce reminded them.

"Why?" Dick asked. "She just checked me out!"

"Because that is what she told us to do," the man replied as he, too, sat down.

"Since when do you do what you're told to do?" the ten-year-old asked with a grin.

"Since it involves a medical condition that I'm not capable of diagnosing."

"Wait, what?!" Dick exclaimed. "Did you just _admit_ that you're not capable at something?!"

With a slight glare at the boy, Bruce replied, "I am not a doctor, Dick, and possible brain damage is not something to mess around with."

Dick glared back so Bruce added, "Brain damage that you obviously don't have."

"Are you really going to let me sleep the whole night?"

"Yes, but I'm still going to stay, just in case."

"When's the last time Batman went on patrol?"

Bruce sighed. Batman hadn't been on a full patrol since Dick had returned to Wayne Manor. It was difficult to patrol an entire city when you needed to be home to wake someone up every four hours. Bruce trusted Alfred, but he also wanted to be there for Dick.

But Dick's question hadn't been "full" patrol, so Bruce answered, "Last night."

Rolling his eyes, the ten-year-old clarified, "_Full_ patrol, Bruce."

"Last week," the man admitted. "The night before you came home."

"So if anything has happened, it's _my_ fault," the boy murmured.

"No, Dick, it's not your fault. You can't control…"

"The only reason you haven't gone is because you have to wake me up. So, in a way, it is my fault. Why didn't you have Alfred do it?!"

"Well, he's a little too old to patrol – no offense, Alfred," Bruce responded with a smirk.

"Not patrol!" Dick said with a laugh. "Wake me up!"

"Because you were hurt, badly, and I was worried about you," the man said soberly.

"Now you don't have to worry anymore, though, so you can go tonight."

"I could, yes."

"But you won't."

"Dick, Dr. Thompkins _said_ you're going to be fine but that doesn't mean I can stop…"

"Observing my every tiny movement?" Dick finished cheekily. "Come on, Bruce, it's not like I'm going to be flying through the city like Superman. I'm going to be here, at home and in bed. Nothing is going to happen because I rebooted my brain…_by myself_!"

"Still…"

"Has _Batman_ ever rebooted his own brain?" Dick asked, adjusting the subject slightly.

"Well, no, but that's…"

"Not at all different," Dick interrupted. "We both have brains, we've both had concussions – well, I assume you have since you're Batman – but I'm the only one who has reset myself. I'm like Batman, doing something that nobody else can do!"

"No," Bruce stated, "you're not."

"But…" the boy began and then paused.

"What?" the man asked, a hint of exasperation in his voice.

"I _could_ be like Batman," Dick stated softly. "I could help you fix problems and stuff."

"No," Bruce said firmly, "and that's the end of that conversation."

"But I could at least help Alfred in the Batcave!"

"I'm out late and you need sleep; you're a growing boy. We're done talking about it."

"But what about Mr. Mack?! I found him and took him down!"

"I said we're done," Bruce commanded. "And I took him down," he added, "not you."

"I helped! I got him to the circus grounds, I fought him and the only reason he was winning was because he cheated with a gun!"

"Dick," Bruce sighed, "_he_ took _you_ to the circus grounds and you would have been killed if he had shot at you again. I wasn't close enough when you were hit in the shoulder."

"But if you had trained me," Dick argued, "I would have known how to get out of the way or something."

"Nobody is fast enough to get out of the way of a bullet," the man grumbled.

"Except…"

"Yes, but _you_ are not Superman. We're done with this conversation."

"Fine," Dick mumbled as he stood up. "I'm going to my room…"

"To sulk," Bruce finished with a slight grin.

Grumbling something indistinguishable, Dick walked out of the room and up the stairs. He needed to find a way to convince Bruce to allow him to help, because _suggesting_ the idea hadn't helped at all.

* * *

Note: Taking a cue from the always-awesome Rollerparty (who named Jasper and Matilda "Jastilda"), Dick combined Mr. Mack and Jasper - Macsper. ;-)


	34. Chapter 34

Note: As usual, thanks to usagipoints for the review! :)

* * *

**Dr. Thompkins' office – two days later:**

"Everything looks good, Dick," Leslie stated as she finished her examination. "I won't need to see you again for either your bones or your brain unless something starts hurting again. "But, I do want you in for a check-up sometime in the near future. Unless…" she glanced at Bruce, "…you already have a doctor."

"Not one that can find out about some things," the millionaire answered. "So, I guess you're our new family physician. And I can't thank you enough for all you've done."

"Well, Dick, do you have any questions?" the woman asked.

"Yes."

He paused, trying to decide how to phrase the question. Leslie and Bruce waited patiently, assuming that it was something difficult for him to express.

"Um, never mind," the boy finally said.

"It's okay, Dick, I'll answer anything you want to know," Leslie assured him. "Whatever it is, you don't have to be afraid to ask."

"It's just…Bruce, don't get mad, okay?"

"I'll do my best, chum, but I can't guarantee anything if it has to do with them."

"Do you want him to leave?" the doctor asked gently.

"Um…"

"Not an option," Bruce declared.

"Bruce," Leslie began, "if he wants to talk about something, he needs to be able to do it without worrying about your reaction. He's had a rough couple of weeks."

"You think I don't know that?" the man replied sharply.

"Never mind!" Dick shouted. "Just forget it, I don't have any questions!"

"Dick," both adults said at the same time.

"No, Dr. Thompkins, I don't have any questions."

"Bruce, let him talk and leave a certain person out of this," Leslie commanded.

"That 'certain person' hasn't had a chance to talk to the people who did this. I need to know what he wants to know so I can discuss it with them," Bruce growled.

"If he doesn't want the 'certain person' to know then he shouldn't be forced to ask his question in front of you!" Leslie retorted heatedly.

"STOP!" Dick yelled again. "Just…stop. I'll ask the stupid question and then we can be done. If the 'certain person' you guys are discussing gets mad, I'll just deal with it."

"If that 'certain person' can just leave the room for a minute, you won't have to deal with his reaction," Leslie said, glancing at Dick. "Can you just be Bruce Wayne for now?" she asked, turning her gaze back to the man and glaring at him.

"Depends on the question," Bruce nearly growled, his glare matching the one radiating from her eyes.

"Bruce," Dick said softly, "I can already tell you it's a question you won't like. But, I really want to know the answer. Maybe just sit down and grab the arms of the chair and clench your jaw and glare and all that other stuff. Then, after Dr. Thompkins answers, we'll wait until you're a little calmer before we leave. Compromise?"

Silence reigned and everyone was uncomfortable with it.

"Fine, I'll just come back sometime with Alfred," the ten-year-old snapped. "Since you obviously can't be an adult and deal with something as simple as a question that I've already told you will make you mad."

Leslie stared at the boy in astonishment. Without batting an eye, he had basically just told _Batman_ to 'grow up'. And that man now looked completely defeated.

"Fine," Bruce echoed angrily as he sat down on the nearest chair. "I'll just be furious over here while you guys talk about something I don't want to hear but am about to anyway."

"Thank you," Dick responded with a sigh of relief.

"What's your question, Dick?" Leslie asked, breaking the tense silence that was beginning to fill the room again.

"Could I have died? From the concussion, I mean."

From the corner, Bruce quietly growled and clenched the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white. Leslie glanced back with a glare and the man shifted his gaze to the ceiling. He used a dark Bat-glare on the offending tiles and waited for her answer.

"Well, that's a complicated question," she finally said. "Concussions aren't usually life-threatening. If they were, a lot of football players would already be dead."

She paused and glanced back at Bruce again, who was now ferociously contemplating the existence of a picture on the wall. His hands were still clenched and his jaw had chosen to do the same. She could practically hear his blood boiling with anger and decided that she wouldn't be surprised if steam started coming out of his ears.

"So…" Dick prompted impatiently.

"You fell down an entire flight of stairs, Dick," she answered with a sigh. "From the way you were acting when I first saw you last week, you were walking a fine line between concussion and brain damage. You should have received medical attention immediately. I don't think you could have died, but you could have lost a lot – memory, intelligence, motor skills, speech, among other things."

Complete silence reigned again as Dick thought that over.

"But I didn't, because I rebooted my brain."

"Obviously," Batman quietly snapped from his corner.

Ignoring the man, Dick continued, "In your professional opinion, would I be able to fight through pain if I were ever injured?"

"What do you mean?"

"Fight, you know, like protecting…myself."

The word 'myself' was a quick replacement for 'people in trouble'. Batman didn't need to hear that.

"Well, I have no knowledge of your fighting abilities, but I can say that you have a very high pain tolerance level."

"Let's say I've been trained to protect myself."

"Okay, but this is a bit unusual. However, with what I know about you, it is my professional opinion that if you were being attacked you would be able to protect yourself until you received an extreme injury."

"Like?"

Leslie glanced at Bruce again. He was giving her an exceptionally forceful Bat-glare, which she had never seen before and now knew why people feared it. The man was halfway out of his chair and struggling to stay there.

"Like?" Dick asked again.

"Perhaps we should stop this line of…"

"Ignore him and continue," the ten-year-old lightly commanded.

Sighing, Leslie said, "Like a broken bone or a weapon-inflicted wound or, obviously, a hit to the head that knocks you out. Among other things."

"Okay, thanks!"

Dick stood up and walked over to Batman. He stopped right in front of him and put a small hand on his shoulder. The man sat down but his body stayed tense.

"Now you have an unbiased opinion, Bruce. So just think about it."

"Not. An. Option."

"I'm a patient person, Bruce, so I can wait for you to make your final decision."

"Final decision already made," Batman growled through clenched teeth.

Leslie had no idea what was going on but she suddenly wished that she hadn't given her professional opinion about the topic.

"I'm going to fill out some paperwork," she said hastily as she rushed from the room.

"You do not have a choice in this, Dick," Batman growled again.

"I'm strong, I listen and usually obey, I've been trained and can continue to train soon, my pain tolerance level is high and I can withstand something that should have caused my death. And a professional just agreed with me. Not just any professional – a _doctor_. You just keep thinking about it and I'll just patiently wait."

"You're _ten_," the man snapped. "If I allowed you to do it, I would at least wait until you're old enough to handle yourself. Eighteen, maybe twenty, _if_ I were to allow it."

Dick chuckled and Batman glared.

"I said _if_," the Caped Crusader declared tersely.

"Which is more than you've ever said before," the boy retorted with a smirk. "Ready to go home or do you need some more time?"

"Let's go, I have a date with a punching dummy or a training mat," the man nearly snarled as he stood up. "And I'm talking to Alfred about you," Batman threatened, attempting to calm down enough to walk out the door.

"Don't worry, I already have. He seems to be a little more open to the idea than you, but he still firmly shut me down."

"Then I'm _definitely _talking to him."

"We can all talk together, if you want. It might be easier than you asking him what I say about it and me asking him what you say about it."

"There is nothing to ask about because the answer is absolutely, positively, firmly, without a single doubt, NO!"

"Too late, you already said 'if'."

Bruce was happy to see the grin and the sparkle in his ward's eyes, but was upset about why it was there. There was no way Dick was going to become a crime-fighter. Ever. Even though the man had accidentally thrown out the word 'if'. As he had said to the boy earlier, it was not even an option.

* * *

**Two days later – State Pen, midnight:**

"Tell Warden Crichton 'thank you' because I'll be gone before he gets here in the morning."

"Of…of course, Batman," the young night guard at the desk agreed fearfully.

It was the rookie's first time meeting Batman, and the hero was as imposing and commanding as the twenty-three-year-old had been told. Even if Warden Crichton hadn't given permission, the young guard decided that he would have let the Caped Crusader in anyway. He was extremely grateful that he was on the right side of the law.

"Numbers?" Batman growled.

"Um, twenty-two in D for him and sixteen in B for her."

Without another word, Batman whirled around and strode away. The guard sighed in relief and dropped onto the nearest chair. He wondered if he would be seeing the hero often and, if so, if he would ever get used to the powerful man.

* * *

**Three minutes later – block B number sixteen:**

"Open it," Batman commanded and the guard patrolling block B instantly complied.

Matilda, startled out of a deep sleep by the creaking of her cell door, sat up in confusion. She was groggy, so she didn't immediately recognize the man who walked into her cell. But it only took her six seconds to grasp the amount of danger she was now in.

"Good evening, _Matilda_," Batman snarled. "How was your day?"

"Um…"

For the first time in her life, the woman was speechless. The hero was looming over her, much like Jasper had loomed over Dick, and she suddenly understood why criminals were afraid of this man.

"I heard there have been some things going on at your house for several years. Care to elaborate?"

His voice was cold and calculating. Matilda pushed herself back but hit the wall behind her bed after only a foot of movement. Bringing her knees up as close to her chest as she could, the woman wrapped her arms around her legs and stared up at Batman defiantly.

"I…don't know what you're, uh, talking a…about," she stammered.

"Really?" Batman replied, narrowing his eyes. "Tell me then, why did Commissioner Gordon personally go to your house and arrest you?"

"I don't know, this is all…all a mistake," she stated, her voice a little stronger.

Batman took a step toward her and folded his arms across his chest. She didn't know it, but Greg had given the commissioner all the details from all eleven of the other children who had been in her care. Commissioner Gordon, of course, had immediately shared those details with the Caped Crusader. The man had tried to honor Dick's unusual request to leave Batman out of it but it was hard to do that when Batman had walked into his office two nights ago demanding details.

"Tell me about Sam Tylers. Or do you want to start with Bobby Cork? Maybe young Dick Grayson would be a good place to begin. Perhaps Josh Michaelson?"

"They were all kids we fostered. We took good care of all of them, ask the social worker. His name is Greg Makov."

"Oh, I've already spoken with him," the hero replied with a growl. "And that was after _he_ spoke with all of those kids. We discovered that Sam had a scar on his left hip. Bobby was reluctant, but eventually told us about his time in the basement with very little food. I've personally seen Dick's torso and Josh talked about his fractured wrist. I'm going to ask you again: do you want to elaborate? It will be better for you if you talk to me before Jasper does. Last chance, Matilda."

"We took good…Sam accidently cut himself when I was teaching him to cook!"

"On the hip?!" Batman nearly shouted incredulously.

Ignoring the hero, Matilda continued, "Bobby wanted to sleep in the dark, said it made him feel safer, and he was never very hungry. Josh was carrying something – I don't remember what – when he tripped down the steps on the back porch. He landed on his stomach and the thing smashed against his wrist."

Satisfied with her ability to think quickly, Matilda gave the man a short nod.

"And Dick?" Batman snarled again.

"What about him?"

"You know what," the man stated, dropping his arms and clenching his hands into fists. "The concussion and bruises and broken bones."

"Oh my gosh!" the woman exclaimed. "Bruce Wayne beats his own kid?!"

Batman just barely restrained himself from flying at her and pounding the slight smirk off her wrinkled face. She had just accused _him_, although she didn't know it, and his blood was now boiling with rage.

"The only thing Bruce Wayne has done," Batman snapped, "is take Dick to the doctor to get the medical treatment he needed after returning from _your_ house."

"You couldn't possibly know that," Matilda countered foolishly. "You can't just take a millionaire's word for it. Why would he tell you that he beats his kid?"

"This is ridiculous," Batman growled. "Makov spoke with Commissioner Gordon _the night the boy returned to Wayne Manor_! It's not possible that Dick would have all those injuries after being at Wayne Manor for less than two hours! We're done, I'm going to talk to your _husband_. Maybe he'll be more cooperative."

"He'll tell you the same things!" Matilda cried, fear outlining the words.

She and Jasper had never spoken about what stories they would create for any injuries that any kid decided to talk about. They had been confident that none of the kids would say anything. Jasper had spoken with each child before they left, just as he had Dick. The fear in the eyes of every child had convinced Jasper of their "loyalty" to him. Because of all that, there was no way Jasper would tell the same stories she had just created.

"I doubt that," Batman growled again as he turned around to leave.

"No…okay, wait!"

With a slight grin of satisfaction, Batman whirled around to face her and folded his arms across his chest again.

"It was all Jasper," she stated softly.

The Caped Crusader waited impatiently when she paused. She didn't continue, so he gave her a fierce Bat-glare.

"Jasper stopped using sharp objects when we – uh, _he_ – realized that Sam had a scar. Bobby refused to do his chores, so Jasper made him sleep down there."

"And the lack of food?" Batman demanded.

"We're just poor people. We never have much food."

Rolling his eyes, the hero motioned for her to continue.

"Um, Josh tried to hit Jasper but he ducked and Josh's fist hit the wall instead. That was totally unprovoked, Josh was a troubled kid."

"Dick," he commanded when she paused again.

"I…don't know?" she questioned meekly.

"DICK!" Batman commanded again, louder this time.

Matilda sighed, stalling so she could figure out a way to lay the blame on Dick.

"The boy was extremely disobedient, all the time. We tried everything we could think of but he just kept breaking the rules. Jasper finally had enough and snapped."

She stopped again and Batman stepped closer, increasing the force of his Bat-glare.

"Um, Jasper may have given him a slight nudge down the stairs."

"A. Slight. Nudge," the hero snarled in disbelief. "Dick would not have a colorful torso and a severe concussion if it had been a slight nudge."

Matilda sighed quietly, dropping her head and resting her forehead on her knees.

"The broken ribs and fractured collar bone," the Caped Crusader stated, his tone dark.

"He…hit the kid," she finally admitted, the words almost inaudible.

Silence reigned. Matilda lifted her head, but Batman was already gone. The guard was locking the cell door and shaking her head.

"You just confessed to _Batman_," the woman stated.

"No, I told him about Jasper," Matilda answered, her voice shaking slightly.

"You really think he's going to let you off the hook when you just let things happen?! Lady, you're screwed."

With those words, the guard strode away. Matilda dropped her head again and tears began sliding down her cheeks. Tears not of regret, but of anger at having been caught.

"Stupid kids," she muttered. "We'll take care of them when we get out of here."

* * *

**Three minutes later – block D number twenty-two:**

Jasper, unlike Matilda, was not fast asleep. He was pacing in his cell, thinking about what he was going to do with Dick Grayson when this was all over. It was obviously because of _him_ that they had been arrested. And the kid was going to regret telling whomever he had told. Probably Wayne.

"Stupid kid," he muttered.

"Who?" a commanding voice asked from outside his cell.

Jasper looked over and his eyes widened. The guard had just opened his cell door and Batman was striding in. Jasper closed his eyes, shook his head, and reopened them, hoping he was either dreaming or hallucinating. But the Caped Crusader was still there.

"Who is a 'stupid kid'?" Batman demanded.

"None of your business," Jasper growled boldly.

"All criminal activity is my business," the hero growled right back. "Which kid?"

Silence.

Batman was suddenly in the other man's face, grabbing his shoulders and pushing him against the back wall.

"Do you want to talk now or learn the hard way first?" Batman snarled.

"Assault!" Jasper cried out.

He heard the 'clang' of his cell door closing, the 'click' of a lock, and then the sound of footsteps fading away.

"I know my rights!" the man yelled.

"The hard way it is," Batman replied darkly.

He let go of Jasper's shoulders and slammed his fist into the man's stomach. Jasper curled into himself and dropped to his knees. Batman crouched in front of the gasping man and forcefully lifted his chin.

"Ready to talk?"

"About…what?" Jasper managed to wheeze.

Without answering, Batman grabbed the man's shirt and forced him to stand up. The hero immediately twisted Jasper around, slamming the front of his torso against the hard wall and pulling his arms behind him. Grabbing the man's bony wrists with one hand, Batman snatched the collar of Jasper's shirt and pressed him against the wall. Jasper's right cheek was smashed against the cement and he could already feel blood leaking down his face.

"I think you know," the Caped Crusader whispered dangerously, his voice right next to Jasper's left ear. "Or maybe I need to speak to your _wife_."

"The only thing we're guilty of is taking good care of foster kids," Jasper mumbled out of the side of his mouth. "Go ahead, ask Matilda. And ask Greg Makov, the social worker!"

"I've already spoken with Greg," Batman snarled. "Do we _still_ need to do this the hard way?"

Jasper didn't answer so Batman spun him around. Grabbing the man's biceps, the Caped Crusader lifted him off his feet and tossed him onto the hard mattress of the bed. Jasper's shoulder hit the wall and he glared at the hero.

Batman was next to him already and he slammed his fist into the side of the criminal's head. Hard enough to hurt, but not hard enough to knock him out.

"Ready to talk?"

"This is assault and battery," Jasper snarled. "You're going to be in hot water."

Sweeping his arm toward the closed cell door, Batman replied, "From who? There's nobody out there to hear you scream."

"There are other prisoners!"

"And who do you think put most of them in prison?"

Batman was actually enjoying this part. Jasper, who was used to having all the power, was no longer in control. The hero could see fear filling the other man's eyes, and it reminded him of the way Dick's light-blue eyes had looked when he had explained everything to Greg. Dick's had been outlined with determination, though. Jasper's only held fear.

"You're weak," Batman growled. "You're a bully, and a coward, and an idiot. Did you really think that nobody would find out about the way you were treating the kids?!"

"We took good care of those kids!" Jasper exclaimed, rubbing his injured shoulder.

"Then let's talk about them," Batman replied conversationally. "Sam, Bobby, Josh, Dick, Marco, Leon…"

"They were mostly good kids, sometimes a little troubled or defiant. We set boundaries, they toed the line, we helped them learn to make good decisions. We are not horrible people," Jasper stated angrily.

"And exactly how did you 'help' them learn to make good decisions?"

"Same way anybody does – discipline."

"Details," Batman demanded, stepping closer.

Jasper stood up and folded his arms across his chest. Glaring up at the Caped Crusader, who was almost eight inches taller, he said, "Yardwork."

Batman almost burst out laughing, the statement was so ridiculous.

"Yardwork," he echoed skeptically, mirroring the other man's stance.

Jasper, feeling brave, foolishly swung a fist at Batman's chest. The hero's left arm easily blocked the hit and his right hand caught Jasper on the jaw. It was just a light right hook, Batman still didn't want to knock the man out, but it whipped Jasper's chin over his shoulder. The man cried out in pain and dropped back onto the bed.

"Who gave Sam the scar, and Dick the bruises, and Josh the fractured wrist?" Batman snapped.

"I don't know about any scar, Josh tried to hit _me_, and Dick was fine when he left our house," the man retorted, his voice a little louder. "Whatever you saw on Dick must have been from his guardian, _Bruce Wayne_."

Jasper spat the name in disgust and Batman couldn't restrain himself this time. He grabbed the man's arms again, yanked him into the air, and slammed him onto the cement of the floor. Jasper gasped and his eyes rolled back in his head. Blood began pooling underneath him and Batman frowned.

Rolling the man onto his stomach, the Caped Crusader tore a strip of material off of Jasper's shirt and pressed it against the head wound. The other man groaned and Batman pushed harder.

He heard footsteps so Batman stood up. The guard patrolling block D arrived and unlocked the cell door.

"The man tripped and hit his head," Batman stated. "You might want to get him to the infirmary."

With that, Batman strode out the door. The guard stared down at the prisoner then shook his head. He took out his walkie-talkie and called for another guard and a gurney. Then he knelt down by Jasper.

"You should have just answered Batman's questions," the guard remarked. "Why are so many first-timers such idiots?"

With a sigh, the man pushed down on the head wound, attempting to stop the bleeding before carting the criminal off to the infirmary.


	35. Chapter 35

**One week later:**

Dick was almost completely pain free. His collar bone was nearly healed, his ribs didn't need wrapping, he was allowed to paint Alfred's drawing with Bruce, and he was carefully beginning to practice his defensive maneuvers again. The only thing missing was tumbling, and he was very impatient with his lack of progress in that area.

"It's not going to happen if you force it," Bruce commented.

They were in the gym, taking a short break from painting. Dick was arched in a bridge, his eyes squeezed shut and his breathing slightly erratic. He had been in that position for several minutes, begging his body to accept and work through the pain that came from bunching together the still-slightly-painful healing ribs.

"It's going to take longer if you don't heal properly before doing some things," the man remarked casually.

With a huff of impatience, Dick lowered his body down and sat up.

"But it's been nearly a month!" he stated. "I'm young, I'm supposed to heal quickly!"

"Where did you hear that?" Bruce asked.

"The doctor, a long time ago, after Michael. I was waking up and he was talking to you."

"Hmmm," the man murmured, remembering the exact moment and words. "He said it would take time."

"He also said my body was strong."

"That doesn't mean you can force yourself to heal quickly. Dick, it's _only_ been nearly a month. Only is the key word – a month is not a very long time for what you went through. You're impatient, and I can understand why, but at least you can do almost everything else."

Alfred walked in and quietly stated, "It's the Batphone, sir."

"Don't do anything unhelpful while I'm gone," Bruce lightly commanded while nodding to acknowledge the butler's words. "In fact, maybe you should go read a book or something."

Dick mumbled something but got up and left the gym. He climbed the stairs, heading for his room, a shower, and a change of clothes. It wouldn't exactly be prudent to sit on the furniture with paint all over himself.

Bruce, meanwhile, headed to his study.

"Yes, Commissioner?"

"Batman, there was a breakout!" the commissioner exclaimed.

"Who?" the hero demanded.

"Scarecrow and Poison Ivy!"

"Unusual combination," Batman murmured thoughtfully. "I'm on my way."

Bruce hung up the Batphone, twisted the switch and slid down the Batpole. Upon arriving in the Batcave, he immediately went to the Current Criminal Activity Bat-Disclosure Unit. He pressed some buttons and twisted some knobs then impatiently waited.

_Ding_.

A card slid out of the exit slot and Batman studied it, slightly surprised. Somebody had missed – either deliberately or accidentally – a villain. Mr. Freeze was also in town.

"Working together or going their separate ways?" he asked the empty Batcave.

"It will be easier to know that if both Alfred and I are watching the cameras."

The young voice came from behind him. Apparently, the Batcave wasn't as empty as he had thought. Dick did have a point. If the three villains separated, it would be difficult for Alfred to keep tabs on all three.

"Fine," Batman growled as he turned around. "But all you do is sit here," he pointed to a chair in front of the Bat-camera Receiving Machine, "and watch."

Hiding his grin of satisfaction, the boy saluted then said, "I'll probably have to use the Bat-communicator."

"Yes," the Caped Crusader grumbled. "But that's it. This chair, the Bat-communicator _only_ if absolutely necessary, and then back to this chair. No compromises, I'm already allowing too much. And this is the _only_ time you will be doing this."

"Sure," Dick stated agreeably.

_Because next time I'll be going with you to find them._

Alfred had already opened the lines to all the cameras – both the city ones and the Bat ones – so Batman carefully looked through every picture.

"The Gotham City Greenhouse butterfly exhibit, an ice cream parlor by Gotham Elementary, and a movie theater," he commented.

"But don't you think it's strange that Mr. Freeze is at the exhibit, Scarecrow is at the small ice cream parlor and Poison Ivy is at the movie theater?" Dick asked.

"Yes," Batman murmured, his head tilted to the right and brow furrowed in concentration. "What's the connection?"

"Who are you going after first?" the boy inquired.

"Poison Ivy, more people at the movies."

"The butterfly exhibit is closed for renovations, Master Batman," Alfred remarked.

With a short nod, Batman whirled around and strode to the Batmobile. He started to climb in but then looked back at his ward and butler.

"Sit," he commanded, and Dick sat down.

Nodding again, the Caped Crusader climbed in and took off.

* * *

**Twenty minutes later:**

Batman arrived at the movie theater, only to find it completely deserted. The Bat-communicator beeped and he opened the line.

"Scarecrow left the parlor and is headed in your direction," Dick said, his young voice sounding tiny. "You have around ten minutes, he's in a Mustang and going fast."

"Thank you," the hero responded.

"Batcave out," came the reply.

With a slight grin, Batman started to climb out of the Batmobile. Of course Alfred would allow the boy to use it. But of course it would be just one time. The butler would see the danger in allowing the boy to get used to doing that and would obviously be the one speaking with Batman from now on.

The Bat-communicator's line was still open and Dick suddenly said, "Mr. Freeze on his way now, too. ETA twelve minutes and forty-two seconds."

"Very specific. Now go sit down," Batman growled.

"Batcave out."

Shaking his head, the boy had probably begged Alfred for one last time, Batman strode into the lobby and stopped, carefully examining his surroundings. Nobody was in plain sight; no villainess, no henchmen, no patrons.

The Bat-communicator in his utility belt beeped and Batman sighed. He took it out and pressed the button.

"Scarecrow nearly there, the Mustang is faster than I thought. Sorry. No sign of Poison Ivy outside, what about inside?"

"I haven't had time to check," the hero growled. "Go. Sit. Down."

"I am sitting down!"

"In front of the machine where I told you to sit."

"But this is more fun!"

"I'm trying to find and capture a villainess before two villains get here."

"Um, Scarecrow just parked in the back. Robin out!"

"Robin…?"

But the Bat-communicator had gone silent. As Batman put it away, he pondered the thought that Dick had just given himself a nickname. This was definitely not good. He never should have let…

The thought faded as a sickly sweet perfume filled the air and the sharp prick of a thorn darted into his neck. And the last thing Batman saw was the familiar mask of Scarecrow coming toward him.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

"Robin, Master Dick?" Alfred inquired, frowning.

"Well, yeah, don't you think Scarecrow or Poison Ivy was already in there? I couldn't say my real name!"

"Batcave would have been just fine, young sir. That's what you've been using."

"But Robin sounds cooler."

"Be that as it may, Master Dick, you do not have an identity to protect. There is no reason for you to worry Master Batman by giving yourself a nickname. From now on, please use 'Batcave out' as I taught you."

Dick sighed and said, "Fine. But Robin is still cooler."

"Why 'Robin', young sir?"

"It's what my mom used to call me. I'm…I was…her little robin."

"Ah," Alfred replied.

"You know, because we were always flying and birds fly."

"I understand, Master Dick."

"I don't know why she chose to use a robin, though," the boy continued. "Maybe because my hair is dark and I'm small?"

"Perhaps."

"Oh, well, it's over, right? I should just let it go, it's not like I'll ever hear…"

Dick stopped and quickly wiped a small tear from his eye before Alfred could see it escape down his cheek.

"I shall talk to Master Batman, young sir," the butler, who always noticed _everything_, stated sympathetically. "Perhaps Robin would be a good code name. But please don't use it anymore until I talk to him, Master Dick."

"Okay," the boy said with a shrug. "He already said he's not going to let me do this anymore so a code name doesn't really matter."

_We shall see, you intelligent, persistent young man._

* * *

**The basement of the movie theater:**

Batman slowly opened his eyes, only to see three villains staring at him gleefully. He was freezing but determined not to show it. Glancing down, he saw why: his entire body was encased in a block of ice. His head was the only thing not covered.

"Your utility belt is over there," Scarecrow said, pointing to the wall on the other side of the room. "We don't want you cheating."

"What do you want?" the hero growled, glancing at his yellow belt hanging from the ceiling before returning his Bat-glare to the villains.

His teeth were chattering; he couldn't hold that back no matter how hard he tried. Batman wondered how long he had been like this.

"I thought my new plant was stronger than half an hour," the melodious voice of Poison Ivy floated through the air, as if she had read his mind. "We just barely got you here and iced up in time. You're quite difficult to move, what with all those…muscles," she murmured appreciatively.

"No matter," Scarecrow said. "You have no way to get out since you have no utility belt. And my new concoction will work just fine. I know you have some kind of Bat-pills that you usually take to stave off the effects of my gasses. But, aren't those also in your utility belt?" he ended with a chuckle.

"What do you want?" the Caped Crusader growled again.

"What every villain…"

Poison Ivy delicately cleared her throat.

Rolling his eyes, Scarecrow continued, "and villainess wants. Your death, of course!"

"We can rule Gotham City without you," Mr. Freeze chimed in.

"Commissioner Gordon has a fine police force," Batman retorted.

"Oh, yes, of course," Scarecrow replied sarcastically. "We are so very wary of being caught by them."

Batman remained silent and all three villains frowned.

"Don't you want to know what we're going to do?" Mr. Freeze asked.

"It doesn't matter," the hero responded. "I always find a way to escape, as each of you well know. Do what you want; it will give me that many more reasons to arrest you."

"Well, aren't you the brave one," Poison Ivy giggled with a grin.

"Not so brave after this," Scarecrow stated matter-of-factly. "This gas," he held up a vial full of green clouds, "will bring your greatest fears to life."

"I've already gone through that," Batman snapped.

"My other ones, yes," Scarecrow replied. "This, however, is brand new. And, as I said before, you have no way to get to your utility belt with all its wonderful gadgets and pills."

"You're going to be scared and struggling to escape," Mr. Freeze commented.

"Which will lead to you pounding your fragile head on this solid block of ice, I'm sure," Scarecrow added.

"So many times that you'll die," Poison Ivy chimed in. "And it will be your own fault."

"This half-baked plan won't work," Batman growled. "First, I can control myself and negate any effects from your gas. Second, even if it's difficult for me to do that, I can control myself enough to ride it out and not struggle. Third, you three could never work together for long. Soon you'll be fighting for control of the city, although none of you will ever be able to do that. As I said, Commissioner Gordon has a fine police force. And, since I'll still be alive, I'll help them and you'll go back to prison where you belong."

"Good luck," Mr. Freeze stated as he and Poison Ivy turned toward the stairs.

Scarecrow waited until they were gone before uncapping the vial.

"Happy hallucinating," he said, placing it on the top of the ice, right under Batman's nose. "I'll be back later to see you in all your bloody glory."

He, too, turned around and left. Batman bent his neck forward, attempting to push the vial away with the top of his head, but it didn't work. Resigning himself to a few hours of fighting some fears, the hero closed his eyes and shut down his body. The ice was cold and he needed to conserve his energy.

* * *

**The Batcave:**

"Um, Alfred?"

Dick was sitting in front of the Bat-camera receiving machine, frowning.

"Yes, Master Dick?" the butler responded, walking over to join the boy.

"The three villains are leaving together. Something's happened to Batman!"

The ten-year-old's voice was almost frantic. Batman was in trouble and didn't have anyone to back him up! If he had a partner, or even a sidekick…

"Master Dick," Alfred the mind reader stated reprovingly. "Discontinue that line of thought immediately. Neither Master Batman nor I will allow you to go out and try to help him."

"But…"

"Master Batman has been able to escape from more traps than you can even imagine, young sir. The villains never kill him outright, they want him to go in the most painful way possible. He will be fine, Master Dick. He may come home a little worse for wear, but he will be fine."

"But what if he doesn't?" Dick countered. "What if he doesn't come home at all? What if this time it's too much? What if he's already dead?!"

Dick's voice was rising in pitch as different death scenarios presented themselves in his mind. Batman lying on the ground in a pool of blood, Batman with a bullet in his heart, Batman unconscious in a burning building, Batman slowly being poisoned with the thorns from a plant of the villainess, Batman's entire body encased in a block of ice…

"Master Dick, Batman has a utility belt. He always finds a way to escape, just as he will this time."

"What if they took his utility belt?!"

"It does not do to dwell on 'what ifs', young sir. We must trust in him, his abilities and his resourceful belt. Please calm down, or I will have to insist that you leave the Batcave."

Dick pushed the chair away from the table and stood up. Folding his arms tightly across his chest, the ten-year-old began pacing around the Batcave. Alfred shook his head; the boy looked like a younger version of a worried Batman.

"How long?" Dick abruptly growled.

Alfred stayed silent, confusion on his face.

"How long does it usually take him to escape?"

"That depends on the trap, Master Dick."

"Have you ever gone after him?"

"Good heavens no!" the butler exclaimed. "He still has an identity to protect!"

"No matter what," Dick snapped.

Alfred took a deep breath before replying, "Yes, young sir. No matter what."

"I have homework," the ten-year-old growled, heading toward the service elevator.

"It's summer, Master Dick," the butler said with a sigh.

"Fine, I have an appointment in the gym."

"Please remember what Master Bruce said before he left. Please, Master Dick, don't do anything to aggravate your wounds that are almost completely healed."

"Whatever," Dick grumbled as he disappeared.

Alfred quickly went to the Bat-communicator and opened the line.

"Batcave to Batman."

He received no answer so he tried it two more times. Still nothing. The butler sighed and sat down.

"Please come back soon, sir," he whispered to the air around him.

* * *

**The basement of the movie theater:**

Batman was in the throes of one of his worst fears. He had done his best to stay calm and keep his mind clear but Scarecrow's new gas was strong. The hero had succumbed to the effects after only ten minutes.

Dick was dead. He had been tortured and thrown into Gotham Harbor. Batman hadn't made it in time, he had failed. His ten-year-old boy was dead because Bruce had argued with him and then a social worker had taken him and he had gone to a villainous family and they had tortured and killed him without hesitation.

It was all Bruce Wayne's fault. He would never forgive himself; in fact he now hated himself. And Batman was going to take care of the people who had done this. They were going to pay a heavy price. Dick was dead, he couldn't be disappointed in Batman's decision.

And then a very pale-looking Dick was suddenly in front of him, yelling at him for failing to rescue him. The boy began telling him every single tiny detail of what had happened and was now crying because it was about to happen again. Batman couldn't move, he couldn't run to Dick and pick him up and keep him safe. So, he began to struggle.

Dick needed him. Batman didn't even notice the pain that was radiating from his head. He didn't notice that his body was almost entirely numb, or the fact that blood was streaming down his face. All he knew was that Dick was going back to a house full of villains and Batman was being stupid enough to let it happen.


	36. Chapter 36

**Wayne Manor:**

Dick had made a decision, one that nobody else in this house was going to like. But Batman was in trouble and he couldn't just leave the man to die!

_No matter what._

The ten-year-old had gone through all his dresser drawers and was now sifting through the clothes in his closet. If he was going to do this, he had to protect Batman's identity. Which meant he needed at least some kind of mask. But all he had found so far was…nothing. He had absolutely nothing that would cover his face.

Then he had an idea. Alfred kept a small basket filled with scraps of material in the laundry room. Maybe there was something in there. All he needed was something that could wrap around his head. He could cut holes for his eyes, nose and mouth if it was big enough.

Dick raced down the stairs and stopped at the bottom, listening carefully for any unusual sounds. Alfred was probably still in the Batcave so the ten-year-old ran to the laundry room. The basket was on a shelf and the boy began rooting around, searching for something satisfactory.

After several minutes, he found it. There were no scraps big enough to cover even his small face. But there was a strip of black that was long enough to wrap around his head. Batman only covered his eyes and the top of his nose with his cowl. So, that must mean that the eyes were the most important thing to cover.

Grabbing some scissors, Dick carefully measured then cut out two holes in the black material. He wrapped it around his head, testing it, and was relieved that he could easily see. Now, for transportation.

The only thing Dick had was his bike. He couldn't drive a car and he obviously couldn't ask Alfred for help. So, stuffing his new mask in his pocket, the ten-year-old quickly and quietly went to the garage and retrieved his bike. Thirty minutes later he entered the Gotham City limits.

Dick was breathing hard, his legs were tired and his ribs were aching. But he still had to make it to the theater, which was a few miles south of his current location. Knowing he couldn't ride straight up to the theater as Dick Grayson and then put on his mask, the boy decided to find a place to stash his bike and then approach the theater from the back.

He took off again, using unobtrusive side streets as much as possible, and arrived at the back of a diner that was a mile and a half away from the theater. Dick shoved his bike behind a dumpster, as far back as it would go, then began carefully searching the surrounding area with his observant eyes.

There were no open windows or doors, no kids playing in the alley, no prying eyes peering through cloudy glass. Dick dropped down and slid behind the dumpster. He pulled the strip of black out of his pocket and wrapped it around his head. Carefully, he gazed around again then stood up and began walking in the direction of the theater.

It took him another twenty minutes to get there. His leg muscles felt like they were on fire. Dick was strong, but nearly forty minutes on a bike and another twenty of half-jogging half-walking was taking its toll. The muscles in his torso were protesting, also, but the ten-year-old pushed on. Batman needed help.

The area around the theater seemed to be deserted. Dick crouched behind a grocery store right across the street and carefully examined everything, just as he had behind the diner. There were no people strolling down the sidewalks, no movement or sounds from any of the stores lining the streets.

He noticed the Batmobile, parallel parked right in front of the theater entrance. Dick stood up, took one last glance around, then sprinted around the building to the back of the theater. The Mustang that Scarecrow had been driving was parked there but the villain was nowhere to be seen.

Dick knew all about Scarecrow and he really hoped that the man had decided to hop in the car of either Mr. Freeze or Poison Ivy. And he really, _really_ hoped that they were all gone, leaving Batman to die in their trap. But he couldn't be sure, so he had to be cautious.

The ten-year-old's ribs loudly protested as he slid against the wall toward the back door. Pushing the pain to the back of his mind, Dick grabbed the handle and quietly twisted until the door opened. No sounds, no people. He slipped inside.

He wanted to just race around the place, yelling for Batman, but forced himself to remain silent as he crept down the short hallway. Dick's heart was beating rapidly and he was having a hard time controlling his breathing. Fear and exhaustion and pain were taking over his body but Batman was in trouble.

"Let's just go!" a loud voice demanded. "He's as good as dead, we don't need to check on him!"

Dick pressed himself against a wall and carefully turned his head toward the sound. Apparently, the three villains had decided to return. The ten-year-old had, from the Batcave, watched them leave. But Mr. Freeze was leaning against a pillar, Poison Ivy was petting something that Dick couldn't see, and Scarecrow was pacing.

"He's strong," Mr. Freeze continued, "and we can't just stay here all day waiting for him to beat himself to death! We have to get to the power station before nightfall if we want our plan to work!"

Dick's eyes widened. How were they getting Batman to _beat_ himself to death?

"Fine, we'll leave for now but come back tonight, after our plan is in motion," Scarecrow grumbled, hating that he was compromising with someone else. "We need absolute proof of his death. Gotham City will beg for mercy once they see the evidence."

"Fine," Mr. Freeze echoed in the same tone. "We can't go out the front. It looks deserted out there, but that doesn't mean there's nobody watching."

"My car's in the back anyway," Scarecrow growled.

"We can't all fit in that tiny thing!"

"Find your own ride then!"

"Boys, boys," Poison Ivy said serenely. "Let's not argue and prove Batman correct. There must be something around here that's big enough for all of us. We're in a street lined with stores, let's just steal something."

"We can't all go wandering around looking for a vehicle to steal! And, like I said before, people could be watching!"

"You boys wait out back, I'll do the stealing. Anyone who is watching will leave me alone. I'm 'just' a woman, right?" the villainess said with a sly smile.

Dick suddenly realized that they were coming toward him. He glanced around and discovered that there were no counters to hide behind and no rooms to hide in. Slightly frantic, he slid along the wall toward the back exit. Right by the door there was a tiny alcove. It was engulfed in shadows but would probably light up as soon as the door opened. However, he didn't really have a choice.

Sliding into the recess, Dick dropped to a crouch and tried to make himself as small as possible. The villains walked right past him and out the door. But Scarecrow paused and glanced back. He had a strange feeling that something wasn't right.

"I'll be right back," he called to the other two.

Turning right instead of left at the end of the hall, Scarecrow strode to the basement door. In the shadows right in front of the door, he placed a second vial of his strong gas. Then he turned around and headed back the way he had come. Without hesitating, the villain walked out the door and joined Mr. Freeze at the back corner of the building.

* * *

The light had gone just over his head and Dick was relieved. But then Scarecrow had turned around and the boy was sure he was about to be discovered. Instead, he watched as the villain walked down the hall, turned right, and came back four seconds later. The man walked out the door, the ten-year-old counted to twenty and then stood up.

He really didn't want to wait around and see if the villains were coming back. Poison Ivy was stealing a car, which meant the men were waiting somewhere outside. So, Dick raced down the hall and turned right. There was a door right in front of him clearly marked Employees Only in large letters. Under there, in much smaller letters, was the word Basement.

Dick stepped forward and grabbed the door handle. The sound of breaking glass was muffled by the carpet, so the ten-year-old had no idea that he had just inadvertently made it harder for himself to complete his objective.

* * *

Batman had stopped struggling, he was too tired to continue. But Dick was still dying, over and over, and there was nothing the hero could do to stop it. Some of the ice at the top had melted, leaving a small river of reddened water sliding down the front of the block. Batman's lips were blue and he couldn't feel his body.

Suddenly, a bright light filled the room and a figure came down the stairs. The shadow morphed into a small, very familiar body and Batman's eyes widened slightly.

"Batman!" Dick gasped, shocked at what he was seeing.

The hero was in ice but the main thing the ten-year-old saw was the blood. It was sliding down Batman's head in every direction, spreading around the ice and dripping onto the floor. Dick stopped in front of his guardian and stared into his dark-blue eyes. They were unfocused and the pupils were dilated.

"You have a concussion," the boy whispered. "They're coming back tonight, let's get you out of here."

"D…Dick?" Batman asked softly, confusion filling his voice.

"Um…"

The boy paused. What if someone was listening? No matter what meant no matter what.

"No, it's, um…Robin!"

It had been the first thing that had entered his mind and he had already used it once. Using it again made perfect sense.

"Robin?" the man asked, his voice still full of confusion and now outlined with skepticism. "I don't…"

"Just relax, we have to focus on getting you out of here."

"He's dead," Batman sighed mournfully. "I didn't save him, my fault, he's dead."

"Who?" Robin asked.

"Dick. Dick Grayson. He was only ten and now he's dead," the Caped Crusader explained sorrowfully.

"Okaaaaaaay, um, where's your utility belt?"

The words had shaken him up but Robin was determined to get them out of here.

"I'll never see him again," Batman said sadly. "Too young, he was too young to die, it's all my fault!"

The words turned into mumbled sounds and Robin shook his head. He grabbed Batman's face, grimacing at all the blood, and tilted it down.

"Look at me," the boy commanded. "Right here, look at my eyes!"

It took several long seconds but Batman finally stared into the light-blue eyes of his, unbeknownst to him, ten-year-old ward.

"We can talk about Dick later. Right now, we need to get you out of this ice. Where is your utility belt?"

"On my waist. Do you not know who I am? I'm Batman, and my utility belt is always around my waist. Can't you see it?"

"Gosh darn it, Batman, focus! It's not on your waist and you're in a block of ice. You're losing blood and probably consciousness soon so stay with me. Did they take it?!"

"What? Who? Take what? Who are you?"

Robin was about to reply when he noticed something shining in his peripheral vision. Glancing to his right, he saw the distinctive yellow utility belt hanging from the ceiling. It was almost twenty feet in the air.

"Great," he mumbled.

"NO!" Batman abruptly yelled. "No, it's happening again! I'm sorry, Dick, I'm so sorry!"

Robin stared at the man, stunned at the sudden change. Batman's eyes were wide and fear was racing through them. The boy put the pieces together – Scarecrow, fear gas, the hallucination of a dead ten-year-old and a concussion.

Batman was struggling again and his head almost slipped out of Robin's hands.

"Stop!" the boy yelled. "You're going to hurt yourself more!"

But the man didn't stop and Robin decided he would have to _make_ it stop. And there was only one way to do that. Well, a combination of two things.

The boy lifted his mask and then, reluctant but not having time to dwell on it, slapped his guardian.

"Calm down," he commanded. "It's me, I'm here, I'm fine and I need you to stop struggling."

The slap worked, Batman stopped moving, but removing the mask didn't.

"No, you're not here," the man whispered mournfully. "You're not here."

Growling, Dick put the mask back on and said, "Don't move. I'm going to get your utility belt and then I'm going to get you out of this. But I can't go do that if you're going to bang your head around and hurt yourself even more. So just shut up and don't move. Please," he added as an afterthought.

Batman remained silent so Robin let go of his head. The man didn't move so Robin began searching the room, looking for a ladder or something else that would help him get twenty feet in the air. There was no ladder, but there were some crates on the opposite side of the room.

Robin ran over and tried to pick one up. It was too heavy, which didn't surprise him, so he began pushing. After fifteen long and exhausting minutes, the boy had all the crates sitting underneath the utility belt. Then he realized that there was no way he was going to be able to stack them on top of each other.

"Idiot, such a waste of time," he mumbled, berating himself. "Thought you were supposed to be smart."

Climbing on the tallest crate, Robin jumped up. He didn't even come close to reaching the utility belt and he wasn't surprised. But, he did notice the beam that was only two feet above the belt. If he could get up there, he could reach it from above.

"Keep not moving," he threw at Batman before racing to the stairs. "I'll be right back."

He was so focused on his objective that he failed to notice the green gas floating in the air. As he ran through the door, Robin did notice an unusual smell, but he immediately dismissed it as unimportant.

Two doors down was a door labeled Roof. Throwing it open, Robin sprinted up the stairs and came out, not surprisingly, on the roof. He had no experience doing something like this but he did the first thing that popped into his mind. Turning around, he found the ventilation shaft, removed the grate and climbed in.

Robin was getting dizzy but he decided it was just from exhaustion and the pain in both his ribs and his legs. The small tunnel he was crawling through looked like it was shrinking. It was dark and Robin was finding it difficult to breathe. He was in a coffin, he could feel it. He was in the ground, in a coffin and people were throwing dirt on top of him. The boy stopped and pounded his hands on the metal.

"I'm in here, I'm alive, HELP!" he screamed.

The sounds echoed around, racing through the shaft and out the vents scattered throughout the theater.

"What?!" a deep voice exclaimed from right underneath him.

Robin heard the word, recognized the voice, shook his head, and took a shallow breath. He looked down; he was right over the basement, three feet above the beam that was two feet above the utility belt.

He was dying, there was no oxygen, people were throwing dirt, he was dying. The boy pounded on the metal again and was surprised when a piece of it fell to the ground. Robin had unknowingly stopped over the grate and was now able to stick his head through the opening.

The air was fresh. He wasn't dying, he was at a theater and Batman was way down on the ground and he was Dick and he was rescuing the hero. No, Robin, he was Robin.

The ten-year-old climbed out of the vent, carefully settling himself on the beam before letting go of the metal just above him. It creaked and groaned and then shook slightly. Robin took a deep breath and draped himself over the beam on his stomach. His torso was hanging over the edge closest to the utility belt, and his legs were dangling off the other side. Every movement by him caused a similar movement from the beam. He tried to ignore it, but it was a little unnerving.

It was moving, everything was moving and nothing was moving correctly. Wires were breaking and people were screaming and his parents were falling. Falling, falling so far to the ground. When they landed they began painting red pictures on the dirt. No, not paint, blood.

"Nononononononono," Robin moaned, the gas creating very real hallucinations.

He tried to scramble down the ladder, but for some reason he couldn't find the rungs with his feet. There was a bar hanging in front of him so he decided to grab it and swing to the other platform, where there would definitely be a ladder to climb down. The bar was yellow, that was weird, but it was still a swinging bar.

So, the ten-year-old grabbed Batman's utility belt and arched his back. His legs went up and over his head while his torso screamed at him. Robin was now hanging twenty feet in the air, and the only thing keeping him from crashing to the ground was the strength of Batman's utility belt.


End file.
